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RADISSON 

The Voyageur 



A VERSE DRAMA IN FOUR ACTS 



BY 
LILY A. LONG 




NEW YORK 

HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 

1914 






Copyright, 1914, 

BY 

HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 



Published November, 1914 



NO!/ 23 1914 



THE QUINN A 800EN CO. PRESS 
RAHWAY, N. J. 



h 



0& 



CI.A388516 
'Ho* I 



PREFATORY NOTE 

For over two hundred years the two white men 
who first pierced the wilderness beyond Lake Supe- 
rior were overlooked by historians, — their names for- 
gotten, their exploit unknown. Manuscript records 
of unquestionable authenticity now give the honor 
to Pierre Esprit Radisson and his brother-in-law, the 
Sieur des Groseilliers. They were trappers and 
traders, not scientific explorers, and they were ap- 
parently quite careless of fame. Such discoveries as 
were incidental to their avocation were all in the day's 
work. But their adventures were many and dramatic, 
and Radisson's journal shows that he, at least, was 
keenly sensitive to the romantic aspects of their work 
and to the wonder element of the wilderness. 

There is no historical record of any love adven- 
ture, such as is included in the play, but — Radisson 
was twenty, and a Frenchman. The other incidents 
in the drama follow his story closely, and many of 
the speeches are merely paraphrased from his 
journal. 

The play as presented is arranged for reading, but 
the notes at the back make it available for amateur 
out-of-door performance, or for use as the basis of an 
Indian Pageant. The opening poem, " The Voy- 
ageurs," could be made to serve as a prologue, spoken 

iii 



iv PREFATORY NOTE 

by a voyageur; and after the last curtain has fallen 
it might be raised for a moment on the solitary figure 
of a woman, looking toward the sunset, who recites 
the closing poem, " The Passing of the Indian." 

" The Feast of Friendship," which is introduced as 
a Pageant following Act III, gives an opportunity 
for the presentation of Indian dances and games, to 
any extent desired. 



CONTENTS 



Prefatory Note .... 
Prolog — "The Voyageurs" 
The Play — " Radisson : The Voyageur " 
L'Envoi — "The Passing of the Indian" 

Historical Note .... 
Directions for Costuming and Mounting 
Directions for Pageant . 



PAGE 

V 

ix 

i 

105 

107 
1 1 1 

"5 



THE VOYAGEURS 

They were a gallant band, the Voyageurs, — 
Adventurous spirits, tossing life and death, 
Like chance-flung dice, with an unfaltering hand, 
To find the western sea that led to Ind, 
To thread the rivers, flowing from the north, 
To pierce the mystery of unknown lands, 
To find the fabled gold of buried kings, 
To track the bear and bison in the wild, 
To trade for silky pelts a queen might wear, 
To hold dumb converse with the woodland men 
And learn the master-craft of how to wrest 
Full life, bare-handed, from the barren wilds, — 
All these were lures to lead the adventurer on. 
Yet more than all, perhaps, 'twas but to feel 
The wildness close about him, shutting out 
The petty strife of towns, the labor dull 
Of day by weary day while time shall run 
That marks the somber safety of the towns. 
Here there was danger, meet to match his might; 
Here there was vastness, equal to desire. 
The night sky spread a tent above the world, 
Murmurous with winds that blew from sea to sea. 
The forests held the memories of a past 
Older than cities, and than empires more. 
Foremost of all, the gallant Radisson, 

vii 



viii THE VOYAGEURS 

That youth adventurous of Gallic blood, 

Who knew the seven oceans of the world 

Before the beard had darkened on his chin. 

And with him, bound in brotherhood of love 

And of adventure, came Groseilliers, 

Sedate and prudent, wise to trade and buy. 

For them the mighty Mississippi made 

A level highway to the wilderness, — 

And to the temple of undying fame. 

Youth calls to youth. The land and they were young, 

And every morning was a challenge flung. 



RADISSON 



CHARACTERS 

Pierre Esprit Radisson, a young Frenchman of 
twenty, gay, debonair, and courageous. 

Medard Chouart, Sieur des Groseilliers. Ra- 
disson 's brother-in-law. A trapper and Indian 
trader, thirty-five years old. 

Son'daqua, the old blind chief of a band of Hurons 
(W endats) , who have been driven westward by 
the Iroquois, and have found a temporary asylum 
on an island in the Mississippi River. 

Anaho'taha, his son, and later the chief. 

Ihee, a medicine-man. 

Onda'ta, an old herb woman. 

O'wera, a young girl of the Wendats, Ihee's 
daughter. 

Other Indian braves and squaws of the Wendat tribe. 

Runners. 

A group of Ottawas. 

A group of Sioux. 

A group of Crees. 



ACT I 

In the cool morning hour of a June day, a group 
of Indian women have come down to the river s edge 
to wash their garments, while others, nearby, are 
grinding corn in stone mortars. The place is Isle 
Pelee (now known to geographers as Prairie Island) 
in the Upper Mississippi River. The year is 1656. 
The day when Father Hennepin shall look over this 
region with the eager eyes of a discoverer and claim it 
for French Louis and for God is still, therefore, a quar- 
ter of a century in the future; and even the explora- 
tions of Joliet and Marquette, somewhat farther down 
the river, are but seven years nearer. Yet now, at this 
moment, two Frenchmen are the guests of these island 
Indians, and have been such for a year past, — adven- 
turers too careless of fame to publish the fact that they 
have found the hidden headwaters of the greatest river 
of this New World. Where every day brims with dis- 
coveries, what is one river more or less? Besides, they 
are trappers, and this year in the wilderness beyond the 
farthest reach of their rivals in the trade has given 
them a store of beaver-skin and fox that will be worth 
a fortune in Montreal, — if only their too loving hosts 
of the winter can be persuaded to let them go, and 
to provide the necessary escort through the hostile 
lands. 



4 RADISSON 

For these island Indians cling to their chance-sent 
friends with the dependence of lost children. They 
are themselves strangers in a land which offers little 
hospitality. Of the Wendat (Huron) tribe, they long 
lived at peace in a land far to the eastward, near the 
Georgian Bay; and many of them have come sufficiently 
into contact with the trappers, and the black-robed 
priests of the French people dwelling near the Bitter 
Water, to learn to venerate the white mans religion 
and to use his guns and his woven cloth. But the 
Iroquois, ambitious and conquering, fell upon their 
quiet villages and drove them out toward the Western 
wilderness, which was peopled with primitive tribes 
who had never even heard that the world held men 
whose skin was white, and who at first looked upon 
the homeless Wendats as supernaturaily gifted because 
they brought thunder-sticks which could kill at a dis- 
tance. Yet only at first! 

But in spite of these miraculous weapons, the for- 
lorn Wendats nearly died of cold and hunger during 
the first winter on that Bald Island whereon they had 
found asylum. Then wonderfully, miraculously, help 
came. As the snow was melting in the spring, two 
Frenchmen, with an escort of a hundred friendly Ot- 
tawas, came to the Island from that far, forsaken East. 
One, the older, grave and wise, put the mark of the 
white mens god upon the children, and, though forty 
of them died thereafter, their parents could at least 
cherish the assurance that the mark would send them 
by a straight path through the Ghost Shadows to the 
Happy Land. Also the wise man had set them to 



RADISSON 5 

planting corn against the needs of another winter, while 
the younger one went out into the forest with their 
own young men all through the long summer, hunting 
and trapping with the boldest and wildest, — he the 
boldest and wildest of all. Therefore, the second win- 
ter brought no terror, for there was good shelter from 
the wind, and meat and corn enough to make all the 
women once more fat and handsome. 

So, now that the Moon of Strawberries has come 
again, the women often come chattering and laughing 
down to the river s edge to wash their garments and 
grind the corn in their stone mortars; and in the 
comfort and good cheer of the present they almost 
forget to mourn for the old home from which they 
fled. 

From a little distance an Indian girl, about four- 
teen years old, watches the women while she swings 
idly in a grapevine swing. This is Owera, the daugh- 
ter of Ihee, the medicine-man, who is nicknamed The 
Owl for his mysterious wisdom. From observation of 
her father s craft, Owera has imbibed a certain shrewd 
wisdom of her own. She is of the New Generation, 
and the youthful arrogance which comes of superior 
understanding sometimes breaks out in mocking and 
sometimes melts into bewildered yearning Yet out- 
wardly she is merely the demure Indian girl, somewhat 
prettier, somewhat keener, than the average. Her black 
hair, parted and held in place by a beaded band, hangs 
in two braids over her breast. Her dress of soft, white 
deerskin is richly embroidered and beaded, for her fa- 
ther is a man of importance. His tepee is just beyond 



6 RADISSON 

Owera, at the extreme right of a semicircle formed 
by the ranged tepees of the leading men of the tribe. 
The Chiefs tepee is in the center; and at the extreme 
left, nearest the water, is the tepee belonging to the 
two Frenchmen. 

The thick-growing willows which mask the river s 
brink are parted by the nose of a canoe, thrust silently 
between the drooping branches, and Ondata, the old 
herb woman, who has spent two days and nights on 
the mainland hunting medicinal plants, steps upon the 
Island. She carries a bundle of her trophies upon her 
shoulders. She is old and wrinkled, and she has long 
since given over the vanity of adding adornment to her 
dress, which consists of the ordinary coat, skirt, leg- 
gings, and moccasins of deerskin; but her face is marked 
with the dignity that comes in the end to all who have 
lived long and patiently, and with the strength of good 
will that belongs to the healer, whatever his race. She 
pauses to look at the women. 

Ondata 
Ye grind as for a feast. 

Women 
A feast indeed. 
A great feast, and a council. 

Ondata 

What the cause? 



RADISSON 7 

Women 

We know not. We are women. We but know 
A feast is ordered. We must grind the corn. 

Ondata 

There was no talk of feasting two days back 
When I went forth to gather herbs that grow 
Within the forest. Have the Iroquoits 
Pursued us hither? Is there talk of war? 

Women 

We know not. We are women. Ask the girl. 
Her father talks to her as though she were 
A warrior born. — Unseemly! — She may know. 

Ondata 
Come hither, Owera. - 

(Owera springs from her swing and comes 
down to the group of women. A gleam of 
demure mischief under her modest eyelids be- 
trays her understanding of the summons.) 

Ondata 

Thy father is 
Ihee, the Owl, the listener in the night, 
Whose wisdom sways the council. Thou must know 
The purpose of this summons. Do the chiefs 
Call the Young Men to take the Road of War? 
Must we so soon again prepare to mourn? 



8 RADISSON 

OWERA 

The war drum hath not sounded, yet the Owl 
That sees at night hath seen the bird of war. 
I, Owera, his daughter, speak the truth. 

Ondata 
Who sends the war belt? 

Owera 

Nay, I named no belt. 
The pale-faced strangers who have dwelt with us 
While ten and two times hath the moon grown thin, 
Would take the backward trail unto the French 
Yet would not go alone. They ask our braves, 
The Wendat warriors and the Ottawas, 
To bear them company upon the way 
Lest they encounter bands of Iroquoits, 
The Long House Dwellers, enemies alike 
Of pale-face, Erie, Wendat, Ottawa. 
The council is to say if they shall go. 

Women 

She talks too much. Unseemly! Can she know 
The secret talk of warriors? — Ask again! 

Ondata 

What is thy father's counsel? For I know 
His words are winged with wisdom, and they go 
Like truly feathered arrows to the mark. 



RADISSON 

OWERA 

My father hath great wisdom from the gods 
And learns their will in dreams. He tells me so, 
And I, that am his daughter, tell it you. 
And yet it is no easy thing to know 
The secret meaning of a medicine dream 
When chiefs with gifts and honors to bestow 
Would twist it this and that way, to their will, 
And glower like wolves at night-time if gainsaid. 
A medicine-man might well then wish to be 
The humblest weakling in the camp; but, no, 
He must make medicine, to please the chiefs! 

Women 

{Scandalized) 

She mocks the wisdom of her father. — Shame! 
He should have set her grinding corn like us. 

Ondata 

Thou speakest somewhat freely, child; yet say 
Who is it that would choose to stay or go ? 

OWERA 

The old would stay; they fear the Iroquoits. 
The weak would stay; they fear the Iroquoits. 
The cowards, and the men who have the hearts 
Of women in their bosoms, they would stay, 
In fear some wandering band of Iroquoits 



io RADISSON 

May hang their scalplocks at the wigwam door. 

But I, if that I were a warrior born, 

Or had a warrior's form to match my heart, 

That beats as boldly as a warrior's should, 

I'd go with Gooseberry and Radisson 

And see the land of marvels where they dwell. 

I would not live a coward for my scalp. 

Women 

Shame, shame!— She talks too bold. Unseemly sound 
For maidens to uplift a chiding voice. 

Ondata 

{Speaking with the compassionate wisdom of 
the old.) 

There is a wisdom of the warrior, child, — 

To track the foe, to make no cry of pain ; 

There is a wisdom of the medicine-man — 

To know by dreams and prayers the Spirit's will; 

And women have a wisdom of their own, 

Unlike the warrior's and the medicine-man's, 

But binding none the less on every maid 

Who would uphold the honor of the tribe. 

Her wisdom is to plant and grind the corn, 

To raise the tepee and to build the fire, 

To cook the food that gives her husband strength, 

And, most of all, to bear with fortitude 

The lot of woman. That, above all else. 



RADISSON ii 

OWERA 

I would I were a warrior, for my strength 
Is not enough to meet the harder task 
Of being woman. 

Women 
Oh, unseemly words! 

OWERA 

In other lands the women are as queens, 
And men do serve them on the bended knee. 

Women 

The girl is surely mad. The white men's talk 

Hath turned her head. She takes their jest for truth* 

It always is the woman's lot to serve. 

OWERA 

{Eagerly) 

Yet hear ye what he says. . . . 

(She sees Radisson leave his tepee and glance 
toward her, and she breaks off hastily, in shy 
embarrassment. ) 

Another time! 

(Ondata passes on with her bundle of herbs 
and disappears behind the tepees. The other 
women gather up their mortars and clothes and 
follow her.) 



12 RADISSON 

(Radisson, baptized Pierre Esprit, is a gay, 
ardent, impetuous youth, whose high spirits 
have not yet been tamed by any of the experi- 
ences he has known. A rover from boyhood, 
he looks upon this Western expedition with his 
brother-in-law, the Sieur des Groseilliers, 
as merely an extension of the adventures which 
have already made him acquainted with half 
the ports of Europe, and have carried him, in 
the New World, through a years captivity 
among the Iroquois. He has the French voy- 
ageurs ease in establishing human relations 
with native tribes, and more than ordinary au- 
dacity and savoir-faire. He is at this time 
twenty years old, wild with enthusiasm for the 
wilderness, for which he has the appreciation of 
a poet joined with the possessive pride of the 
discoverer. His dress combines the practical 
features of the woodsman's garb and the In- 
dian s — buckskin leggings reaching to the hip, 
belted blouse, a gay sash and pouch, and 
moccasins.) 

Radisson 

{Approaching gayly) 

Ah, little wild rose of the wilderness, 
Hast thou a smile to-day to give Pierre? 
Thine eyes are veiled. I see their lashes so, — 
Long silken lashes on a golden cheek! 
There are fine ladies in the land I know 



RADISSON 13 

Beyond the Bitter Water, who would give 

Their chance of heaven (though that's not much, i' 

faith,) 
To have such lashes veil such lustrous eyes. 

OWERA 

"Ladees?" Are they the maidens of thy tribe? 
Do they embroider moccasins for thee? 

Radisson 

Nay, in the foolish fashion of the French, 
It is the men who spend their time and skill 
To plan the trappings that the women wear. 
How wouldst thou like that fashion, little drudge? 

OWERA 

I like it not. Wouldst thou return to them, 
When here thou art the lord of all of us? 

Radisson 

I must return if I would sell my fui 

To prove my sanity, I must return, 

Though, by my faith, my inclination jumps 

Rather with thy suggestion, and to stay. 

But if I go, I will again return. 

I will return to this fair wilderness 

That draws me as a mistress with her wiles, 

Her cruel gifts, her thorny tenderness, 

— Which is beyond thy knowledge, little rose! 

Wilt thou forget me when I am away? 



i 4 RADISSON 

OWERA 

Women remember. Only men forget. 

Radisson 

Thou art no woman, but a child; and yet 
See thou remember. If I come again 
And find thou hast forgotten Radisson, 
I'll pluck the little stars from out the sky 
And turn the moon to water in my wrath, 
The which will make a rain of forty days 
And drown the tribe, — because one careless maid 
Forgot her friend! Behold, this string of beads 
Shall help thee keep a memory of me. 

(He gives her a string of beads, which she ac- 
cepts eagerly. The young chief of the Wen- 
dats, Anahotaha, passes near. He sees the 
gift and scowls darkly, — a pantomime not lost 
upon Owera.) 

OWERA 

(With shy mischief in her explanatory glance) 

It vexeth him that thou shouldst give me beads. 
'Tis not the custom of our people. 

Radisson 

True, 
But I am of another race, and so 
I give thee beads as gods bestow the rain 



RADISSON 15 

Upon the woodland flowers. They, for thanks, 
Do kiss the breeze, — and faith, I like the word, — 

{He attempts to kiss her. Ihee and Groseil- 
liers come out from the Frenchman s tepee, 
and approach.) 

(Ihee, — the Owl, — is Owera's father, — a 
politic old Indian, whose reputation for wis- 
dom is not entirely dissociated from his ability 
to discern which way the wind of counsel is 
going to blow. If he had been born under other 
conditions, he would have been another Polonius. 
Medard Chouart, the Frenchman, known 
from his little estate at Three Rivers, near 
Montreal, as Sieur des Groseilliers, is fif- 
teen years older than the young brother-in-law 
who is his chosen companion, and who is to be 
such through many years of good and bad for- 
tune. Lacking Radisson's imagination and 
vision, he yet has the practical good sense re- 
garding the needs of the day and the knowledge 
of woodcraft and of Indian nature that insure 
success for their expedition. Just now he is 
more than annoyed at Radisson's unpolitic 
gallantry.) 

Ihee 

(Politically ignoring Radisson's attitude, he 
addresses Owera sternly.) 

Get thee to thine own tepee, forward girl. 
The council gathers. Maids may not be seen. 



16 RADISSON 

(He stalks off to his own tepee, and OwERA 
follows him in silence.) 

Groseilliers 

Mad fellow, wouldst thou wreck us for a kiss? 
That maid is pledged to Anahotaha, 
The son of Sondaqua, the old blind chief. 
Our friend Ihee, who makes the medicine, 
Is Owera's father, and he knows her worth 
To raise himself to power. So take thy beads, 
Thy smiles and kisses, to another mart, 
Or thou wilt burn our tent about our ears. 

Radisson 
(Airily) 
Pooh, pooh, a trifle! Do not speak of it. 

Groseilliers 
God's faith, and who will speak if I do not? 

Radisson 
Why, none at all, and that would please me well. 

Groseilliers 
Thy wisdom is worn thin. It needs a patch. 

Radisson 

She is a child, an infant. Have I leave 
To kiss a brown pappoose, if I so will? 



RADISSON 17 

Groseilliers 

Thou'lt lack the will, if I have leave to judge, 
Until the brown pappoose hath taken on 
The grace of maidenhood. But be on guard. 
Wild seedlings ripen early. Furthermore, 
The word may rest with Anahotaha 
If we get escort to Quebec or no. 
We're prisoners, though our warders know it not. 
I pray they may not guess too near the truth. 

Radisson 

Good brother, I was once a prisoner, 

No rhetoric, but fact, as well thou know'st, 

Among the Iroquoits. I made escape. 

Groseilliers 

And so thou may'st again, if thou but use 
Discretion where to scatter burning looks, 
Nor willful fire our bridges of retreat. 

(During the above colloquy the Wendat braves 
have been gathering in the background and have 
gradually formed in a semicircle, leaving an 
open space toward the front. They take their 
places, reclining on the ground, in silence, and 
are pointedly unobservant of the two white 
men.) 

The chiefs have gathered for the council talk. 
Now we, with fitting state and dignity, 
Must take the central place and play at pomp, 



18 RADISSON 

For they are children in their love of show 
And dote on tinsel as a courtier doth. 
And see thou second me, or Marguerite, 
Thy sister and my wife, may languish long 
For tidings of her brother and her lord. 

Radisson 
I'll back thee up, good Medard, never fear. 
Thou'rt spokesman, as the elder, but I stand 
Beside thee, be the need for word or blow. 
I'll swear that black is white and night is day, 
That we are little gods, and have a horde 
Of waiting devil-slaves to do our will 
And wreak our anger on our enemies. 
Give me a chance and prove what I can do. 

Groseilliers 
But keep thy madcap jests for other times. 
A spark to powder, and our cause is lost. 
Remember, if the council should decree 
Their young men may not go to see the French, 
We and our hopes alike will find an end, 
Since we alone cannot essay the wilds. 

Radisson 
We cannot ? That's a word that likes me not ! 

Groseilliers 

Oh, we can go and die beside the way, 
If bleaching bones will satisfy thy pride. 
I choose to keep my flesh, and Marguerite. 



RADISSON 19 

Radisson 

The wilderness is bride enough for me, — 
The virgin wilderness no man hath known. 

Groseilliers 

A cruel mistress. She would see thee die 
Without compassion. Come, put on thy gauds. 
We must impress the council with our state. 

( They enter their tent. As they withdraw, tht 
women curiously draw near from their conceal- 
ment behind the tepees. Whispering together, 
they peer cautiously after the Frenchmen.) 

Women 

They go unto their tepee. Is it truth 
That they have little devils in the tent 
To guard their guns and beads and tinkling bells? 

OWERA 

Aye, true enough, as any thief may learn. 

Women 

And is it true they talk by painted signs, 
One to the other, when they are apart? 

OWERA 

Aye, true enough. The black robes have the skill. 
'Tis white man's medicine. That way they sena 



20 RADISSON 

Warnings of treachery, and secret talk 

That one may carry in the open hand 

Yet hear no whisper. But the white men hear. 

Women 

(With jealous skepticism') 

How dost thou know? Canst thou hear paper talk? 

OWERA 

I am baptized. The black robes made a mark 
That none can see, with water, on my brow. 
That, too, is magic. That is how I know 
So many things that hidden are from you. 

Women 

It is not fit that women know these things. 

(Last to enter the council ring are Sondaqua, 
the chief, who is blind, and Anahotaha, his 
son, who supports him, and guides him to the 
central place. Anahotaha takes his place at 
his father s right, with Ihee next to him. 
Ihee, as medicine-man, carries a gourd filled 
with pebbles, which he rattles occasionally, to 
fill a pause or point applause. He wears an 
owVs head and wings as a crest. Space is re- 
served at Sondaqua's left for the two French- 
men. The women have disappeared in or be- 
hind the tepees, though their presence may be 
guessed from the occasional flutter of a fringed 



RADISSON 21 

garment. Only Owera is in full sight. She 
sits on the ground at the door of her father s 
tepee, stringing rose-hips for beads, but shyly 
watchful of the council. 

Sondaqua is old and feeble, with the de- 
tached point of view of a man whom life has 
forcibly disengaged from personal ambitions and 
hopes. He wears with dignity the chiefs robe, 
made of brilliant, fluttering feathers, and reach- 
ing from his neck to his heels. 

Anahotaha, who knows that the responsi- 
bilities of leadership will fall upon him on his 
father s death, carries in his heart a smoldering 
anger at the disasters that have befallen his 
people, and a resentment, which is ready to 
burst into flame, that they should have become 
beholden to the white strangers. Added to this 
is a more personal bitterness toward Radisson, 
whose playful gallantry toward Owera has 
aroused his anger.) 

(Radisson and Groseilliers come out from 
their tent dressed for the council. Groseil- 
liers has assumed an old doublet of purple vel- 
vet with slashed sleeves showing white satin 
beneath. Over this he wears a necklace of small 
mirrors. He carries a valuable belt of wam- 
pum in his hand. Radisson wears a richly 
embroidered cloak over his other garments and 
has bound a bright cockade against his head.) 



22 RADISSON 

Groseilliers 

Delay a little. Let the council wait 

Our due appearance. We must wait for none. 

Radisson 

Medard, this is a game that kings might play. 

My veins run fire, a flame is in my brain. 

To look abroad on this fair wilderness 

Where never white man's eye hath fallen yet, 

To hold a secret in thy heart and mine, 

This mighty river with its yellow flood, 

These forests with their beauty and their wealth, 

These lakes and hills and prairies, — ours, all ours, — 

To turn these wildmen by our single will, 

We two against a thousand, — this is life! 

In truth, I half accept the wildmen's faith. 

I feel I am a god, as they believe. 

A little god, no doubt, but still a god! 

Groseilliers 

A godship that may soon be put to proof. 

Our wares, as well thou know'st, have all been swapped 

For beavers — which are worth their weight in gold, 

But like the gold of Midas, may be yet 

Our heavy death, since we are poor indeed, 

For all our beavers, if we have no iron 

To pay for service. We have scarce a knife 

Between us. 



RADISSON 23 

Radisson 

But we have a better ware, — 
Fine, dazzling, gorgeously bepainted words! 
A ware to buy our freedom! For they love, 
These hungry savages, a glowing speech 
Better than food. Good brother, make thy talk 
Sound like a war-drum, flash like broken glass. 
Thou'lt carry all before thee. 

Groseilliers 

Aye, I go 
To shoot the only arrow may avail. 
Our quiver's empty, if this last do fail. 

(They take their places with impressive dig- 
nity in the circle at the left of Chief Son- 
daqua. The pipe of ceremony is passed 
around and all smoke in silence. At length 
Groseilliers rises.) 

Groseilliers 

My Brothers, Elders of the Tribe, and Chiefs, 

We come together here that each may lift 

His voice in counsel. First by right of age 

And wisdom is Old Sondaqua, the chief. 

His eyes are closed to outward things, yet see 

The secret trails that run in each man's heart 

Beneath the leafy cover of his words. 

The chain of friendship that the white men brought 

Is in his hand. He will not let it fall. 



24 RADISSON 

His tongue is straight. It cannot speak a lie. 
His wisdom is renowned to all the tribes 
To east and west, and even to the French. 
We wait for Sondaqua, the chief, to speak. 

Radisson 
(Aside to Groseilliers) 

Well said. They'll swallow flattery so thick 
'Twould choke a poet or a mandarin. 

Sondaqua 
(Rising with difficulty) 

Old Sondaqua was like the mighty oak 

That spreads its branches for a pleasant shade 

And grips the hillside with its sinewy roots. 

He was a shelter to his friends. But now 

The storm hath stripped his branches. They are bare. 

The worm is at his heart and he must die. 

His ancient home is lost by chance of war, 

His young men have been slain, his warriors ta'en. 

He fled by night through unknown forest ways 

To this far land for shelter. Now, oho! 

He sees the shade of change on all he knows. 

The ancient ways are dead, the new unlearned. 

The pale-faced stranger, coming from afar, 

Hath brought us gifts of iron, thunder-sticks, 

And burning water that doth make us mad. 

He cast these at our feet. We took them up, 

And by our ancient custom we are bound 



RADISSON 25 

To do his will whose gifts we have received. 

The white man's path will lead to change and death. 

I that am blind see far along the way, 

And it is black with sorrow, red with war, — 

Yet must we follow. Let the white man speak. 

Groseilliers 

My brothers, I have dwelt with you in peace. 

Ye know me for a friend. A year ago 

We came among you ere the snow was gone, 

To trade for beavers, and we found you here, 

New set on this fair island, without corn. 

Did I desert you? Did I go alone 

Back to the French, who waited my return? 

Ye know I stayed a twelvemonth, helping you 

To raise a harvest, while my brother here 

Went with your hunters, finding out new trails. 

Now all have maize in plenty, and your wives 

Are joyful, laying by a winter's store. 

This I, your friend, have done for you, my friends. 

But now the time hath come when I must go 

Back to my people. I will bear them word 

Of you, the brothers that I found afar, 

With whom I dwelt in love a winter through. 

Who of my brothers w T ill go down with me 

And see the wonders of the Frenchmen's town, 

Eat full, drink plenty, carry iron home ? 

I lay this belt of wampum at your feet, 

Who takes it up ? Who hath the heart to go 

With me and with my brother to the French? 



26 RADISSON 

Radisson 
(Aside to Groseilliers) 
Well done. Thou hast the glories of that round ! 

A Chief 

Who will baptize our children, if ye go, 

Or show the Spirit trail that leads to heaven? 

Another Chief 

Delay a season yet, for love of us. 

We are your brothers. We would have you stay. 

Ihee 

(Catching the sentiment of the meeting) 

The gods have shown me in a medicine-dream 
It is their will the white men should remain. 

Anahotaha 

(Rising with a commanding gesture) 

My brother hides his heart beneath his words 

As turbid waters hide a treacherous ford. 

He asks that we go down unto the French 

To feast and gather gifts. He doth not say 

Our path must lie where bands of Iroquoits 

Are watching for us in the forest shade, 

And we must run the gauntlet of our foes 

As prisoners run between two hostile lines 

That strike them as they run, and strike, and strike. 



RADISSON 27 

The Iroquoits that drove us from our land 
Are waiting for us in the hidden ways, 
And if our brother asks that we return 
He is no Wendat, but an Iroquoit, 
A foe at heart, with words that cover death. 
Let him take back his greeting, and his belt. 

{He kicks the belt across the field. Other 
chiefs, influenced by his eloquence, spring up 
and kick Groseilliers' belt back and forth in 
scorn.) 

Chiefs 

{In a tumult) 

He is an Iroquoit at heart! — He seeks 

To trap us like a castor in a trap! — 

The Iroquoits will fall on us, and slay 

All those who journey down unto the French. 

Ihee 
{Veering with the tide of feeling) 
We who have fled may nevermore return. 
The gods have shown me in a medicine-dream 
It is their will that we should not return. 

Anahotaha 
It is my will. Ho, ho ! It is my will. 

Groseilliers 
{Aside to Radisson) 
Chief Anahotaha would thwart our plan 
Because of anger. Thank thyself for that. 



28 RADISSON 

Radisson 

He would be wiser, since he likes me not, 
To send me hence, and let the Iroquoits 
Do what he dare not. But these wildmen have 
No logic as to cause and consequence! 
They only see the thing before their eyes. 

Groseilliers 

(Rising) 

My brothers, ye have shown indignity 
To me, my gift, and message; and the gods 
That guard the French will have offense at you 
And send a pestilence to kill your corn. 

SONDAQUA 

Sooner or late, it comes; the end is sure. 
The white man will possess our land, and we 
Will be as dogs that slink behind the lodge 
And gnaw a bone in silence, while the meat 
Is his, the conqueror's. We must do his will. 

Anahotaha 

That is not good talk for the tribe to hear. 
This land is ours and no one here may come 
But by our leave, and no one may go hence 
Save by our letting. We are Wendats! Ho! 
We are the People of the Bear. Shall we 
Follow like women when a stranger calls? 
Who lifts that belt of wampum is a foe! 



RADISSON 29 

Groseilliers 
(Aside to Radisson) 
Speak to them, thou, if thou canst turn the tide. 

Radisson 

(Springing up and throwing off his gay cloak.) 

There is no man among you. Cast away 
Those feathers ye are wearing. They belong 
To warriors who can do courageous deeds, 
And not to women, weaklings, such as you. 
Ye men? Ye have the timid hearts of squaws. 
Ye hide within the lodge, ye run away, 
When war-whoops in the forest sound the cry 
That turneth men to warriors unafraid. 
Ye have no right to weapons. Ye are tame. 
The skin of castor is a war-club fit 
To beat you with, O cowards that ye are! 

(He snatches the beaver robe from a brave and 
beats him about the shoulders with it, and then 
flings it down.) 

Stay if ye will. Like women dig the roots, 
And make the fire to keep you snug and warm, 
And hide yourselves when Iroquoits appear 
To mock you and to carry off your wives. 
For me, I go alone. I do not fear 
A shadow on the trail, a wild bird's cry; 
Aye, and I do not fear the Iroquoits. 
I am a man. I face the wilds alone. 



30 RADISSON 

(He flings a pack upon his shoulder and makes 
as though he would go off alone.) 

Indians 

(In a tumult) 

He shames us with his words. — My heart is hot. — 
I, too, will call myself a man! — And I! — And I! — 
We are not cowards. We will lift the belt 
And take the message that our brother gives! 

(They pick up the belt and crowd about it, 
each trying now to touch it.) 

Ihee 

(Bustling to the front and waving his arms to 
the wigwams.) 

Ho, women, pack the bundles for your men! 

They join Groseilliers and Radisson 

To make the journey to the Bitter Sea. 

The Wendat men are braves, as all may know. 

Radisson 

(Laughing excitedly, challenging in his triumph) 

Then come with Radisson! The bundles, ho! 

(The council breaks up in confusion and the 
women come hurriedly out with their arms filled 
with the mens belongings, which they proceed 
to bundle up. Owera alone stands motionless, 
her eyes fixed on Radisson, who has thrown 



RADISSON 31 

his arm over Groseilliers' shoulder and gives 
no thought to her. The sun, which has been 
shining radiantly, passes behind a cloud, and a 
slow-moving shadow sweeps over the camp.) 

[curtain] 



ACT II 

Three years have passed since Radisson and Gro- 
SEILLIERS, with their escort of young braves, left the 
Wendat Camp on Isle Pelee. In the meantime the 
camp has shifted, the hostility of the neighboring Sioux 
driving the Wendats northward. It is now October of 
i6$g, and the tribe under Anahotaha, the new chief, 
has pitched temporary camp on the shores of a lake, 
to be known in subsequent history as the Lac Courte 
Oreille. 

The wild geese are flying southward over the lake, 
and though the mid-day sun is warm upon the October 
land, little gusts of wind come now and again to flat- 
ten the long yellow grass upon the shore and to shake 
down the red and yellow leaves from the clump of 
trees in the low land to the left, which shelter the ill- 
prepared wigwams of the Wendats. There is a haze 
in the air which dims the sunlight and hangs like a 
portent on the far horizon. 

OwERA, who is now seventeen, sits solitary on a 
high bank overlooking the lake. Though she is, ac- 
cording to the standard of her people, a woman grown, 
the waywardness which has marked her from child- 
hood has saved her from the crushing burdens that In- 
dian custom lays upon women. She is still unmated, 
still the privileged daughter of the medicine-man, of 

32 



RADISSON 33 

whom no tasks may be exacted, and who may indulge 
to the full her taste for rich garments. 

She sits idle, looking northward over the wind- 
fretted water, and sings. 

OWERA 

(Sings) 

Long is the trail 

My beloved must follow. 
The lone moon that watcheth 
Is weary with waiting. 

Long is the trail. 

It leadeth him far 

Past suntime and moontime, 
Past springtime and summer, 
To the region of winter, 

It leadeth him far. 

(While she sings, Anahotaha, who has suc- 
ceeded to the chieftainship, has entered noise- 
lessly behind her. He has assumed the more 
ceremonial dress that goes with his new rank, 
and whatever emotions of doubt, anxiety, sor- 
row, or love may rack his heart, he masks them 
with the impassive dignity which befits a chief. 
As Owera finishes her song, he comes forward 
and announces himself impersonally, without a 
direct look at her.) 



34 RADISSON 

Anahotaha 
I, Anahotaha the chief, am here. 
I, chief of Wendats, Anahotaha. 
My wigwam is the largest and the best. 
My furs are many, and my wealth is great. 
I have a spirit-stick, a medicine-gun; 
It kills by magic and it kills afar. 
Behold how great is Anahotaha. 

OWERA 

(With carefully hidden amusement) 
No one may doubt, since he hath said the word! 

Anahotaha 
My beaver-skins are soft, to make a couch. 
I bring much venison to fill the pot 
The Frenchmen left me. — Come thou to my lodge! 

OWERA 

(Startled, and suddenly cautious) 

I? Nay, I have a task! My father waits 
Till I return with gatherings of roots. 

Anahotaha 
A father may not hold a maid for aye. 
Come to my tepee. 

Owera 

Nay, my mother waits 
For me to build the fire and cook the food. 



RADISSON 35 

Anahotaha 

Come to my tepee! I have waited long 
For wife to make my lodge-fire burn, and hang 
A beaded deerskin up against the wind. 
It is not fitting that the chief should dwell 
Alone, with none to cook his food for him, 
Or bear his pack on trail. 

OWERA 

The Chief can find 
A score of maidens who will not delay 
To seek his tepee. Let him speak to them. 

Anahotaha 
I will not have another maid to wife, 
For I have chosen Owera from all 
The laughing maidens at the virgin-dance. 
My tepee shall be empty till she come. 

Owera 

She doth not choose to wed. 

Anahotaha 

I heard her sing 
Her love was following a distant trail. 
Is there another who hath sought her eyes? 

Owera 

No, no. No other. 'Twas an idle song, — 
A dream of childhood melting into song. 



36 RADISSON 

Anahotaha 
No more than that? 

OWERA 

No more. Indeed, no more. 

Anahotaha 
A dream should fly away when morning comes. 

Owera 

It rises every morning in the mists 
That melt before the sunshine, but it comes 
Back in the night-time by a trail of stars 
To Owera's pillow, till it grows to song! 

Anahotaha 

There is no song for Anahotaha. 
The heart of Anahotaha is weighed 
To heaviness with care. He is a chief, 
He walketh proudly when the people see, 
And yet his heart is heavy, and his feet 
Are set in ways of loneliness. He longs 
To rest his sorrow on a woman's breast, 
For only to a woman may a brave 
Confess his fears. She only may uphold 
His drooping spirit with her tender hands. 
And therefore Anahotaha hath longed 
To draw the maiden Owera to him, 
To bare his heart to her in wigwam talk. 



RADISSON 37 

This land is new to us, and hostile bands 
Do hedge us on the north and on the south. 
Last night strange signals burned across the lake, — 
No one can say what foes surround the camp. 
Come to my tepee ere the battle fall. 

OWERA 

{Excited and eager) 

Our runners — hast thou sent them in the night 
To spy on those who come? They may be friends, — 
Our young men who went down unto the French 
With Radisson, three summers in the past. — 
Nay, it may be he comes again himself! 

{An Indian runner, dressed in the trim, light 
costume of the speed-maker, comes in at the 
opposite side and races across toward the shel- 
tered camp. As he passes he waves his hand 
to Anahotaha, and without pausing shouts 
his message.) 

Runner 

Groseilliers comes again and Radisson! 
Across the lake their little boats are come! 
Our Radisson returns! He comes again! 

{Goes out running.) 

OWERA 

He comes again! I thought he would forget! 
A dream hath shown to him the trail of stars! 



38 RADISSON 

Anahotaha 

What is their coming or their stay to us? 

They are another people, and they have 

Another totem. They will come and go 

Like white bears from the north that lose their way 

And wander hither, and again return. 

Come to my tepee ere the white men come. 

OWERA 

Nay, I must see them. Do not hold me back. 

(Ihee, the medicine-man, anxious for his pro- 
fessional credit and quick to take what advan- 
tage may be open to him, enters hastily from 
the direction of the camp, where he has en- 
countered the Runner and learned his tidings.) 

Ihee 

I saw it in a dream. They come again. 

The white chiefs come again with many gifts! 

(Radisson and Groseilliers, with an escort 
of Indians, some of whom are carrying loaded 
canoes on their shoulders, enter from the direc- 
tion of the lake landing. 

A crowd of men and women from the camp 
straggle in after Ihee, and the two parties 
meet. 

The two Frenchmen are three years older 
than when we saw them last, and Radisson has 
perhaps a trifle more of leadership and self- 






RADISSON 39 

command, but otherwise they are little changed. 
They, as well as their entire party, carry the 
travel signs of the two-month journey by lake 
and land which has brought them here from 
Montreal.) 

Radisson 

(Eagerly, and in advance of his party) 

Ihee, old fellow! 'Tis thy very self, 

Still prophesying after the event! 

The safest sort of prophecy, my sage! 

Is Owera here? My faith! My dazzled eyes! 

And is this Owera, my little girl 

Of. three years back ? Who gave thee leave to grow 

To such a beauty, once my back was turned ? 

Owera 

(Shyly) 
'Tis Owera, in truth. Behold thy beads. 

(She draws his beads from her bosom.) 

Radisson 

Thou shalt be decked with beads, the best I have, 
Because thou'st kept the old ones in thy breast 
And me in memory. Who else is here? 
What, all our ancient friends of Isle Pelee? 
We had not thought to come upon you here. 
Where are your wigwams, lodges? Where the camp? 



40 RADISSON 

Ihee 

{Putting himself forward) 

Within the shelter of the fringe of trees 

Between the hills, hath Anahotaha, 

Who now is chief, set up our winter camp. 

But I, I have no kettle in my lodge, 

And I have ever been the white man's friend. 

Groseilliers 

(Advancing with formality to greet the chief) 

Chief Anahotaha, how doth it come 
We find thee and thy tribe in this the north? 
Have ye forsook Isle Pelee, where the stream 
Held fish in plenty, and the maize grew high? 

Anahotaha 
(Sullenly) 
We came away. This is a better place. 

Groseilliers 

This is a barren place. The winter comes. 
Where are your heaps of corn for winter food? 

Anahotaha 

Each season's food the Manitou bestows. 
Ihee will make a fast and win his ear. 

Groseilliers 
Can Ihee's fasting fill an empty pot? 



RADISSON 41 

Ihee 

Unless the Manitou be roused to wrath 
By sin within the tribe, most sure it can. 
If answer be withheld, it is no fault 
Of prayer and fasting, but a certain sign 
That there is disobedience in the tribe, 
And secret sin is hiding in some heart. 

Groseilliers 

Why have ye left Isle Pelee, where I set 

The corn that ye should reap, and there was peace? 

Anahotaha 

The tribes to west, beyond the Neutral Ground, 

Like Iroquoits, are very fierce in fight. 

At first they called us gods, because we had 

Iron, and waukon-sticks that kill far off. 

We thought them weaklings, since they had no guns. 

Their knives were stone, sharp-splintered. So we slew 

Their hunters in the forest. We were braves. 

But they, they followed us, and fell on us, 

And in the fight the Spirit hid his face 

From us, his children. Why, we cannot know. 

So ^ed we from the island, to the north. 

Groseilliers 

Where is old Sondaqua, our friend the chief? 
He fathered not such folly. Is he dead? 



42 RADISSON 

Anahotaha 

The breath departed from him, so we laid 

His body in a cave beneath the bluff 

Near where the Sky-stream joins the Mighty-stream. 

There is a fountain far within the cave, 

And Manitou, the Spirit, there is heard 

In endless murmured speech, by night and day. 

We left him there. And I am now the chief. 

Radisson 

(Breaking in to relieve the situation, which he 
sees is becoming strained.) 

Our greetings to thee, Chief! We bring thee gifts. 

We are thy uncles, — thy great-uncles, even! 

Send runners through the camp to call a feast. 

I and my brother bid you all to come 

And smoke the new tobacco that we bring, 

And feast on venison and salted fish. 

This is a day to be remembered long, 

For we have come from far to find our friends 

And buy your skins of beaver and of fox. 

Is old Ondata here? 

(The ancient herb woman is pushed forward.) 

Bid her prepare 
A mighty feast for all, and we will give 
To all the Wendat braves a worthy gift, 
Another to the women, that they may 
Rejoice in our return. The children, too. 
Bid all to gather here before the feast, 



RADISSON 43 

And let us show our friendship by our gifts. 
Go, you, and you, and bring our sledges up. 

Indians 

{Laughing) 

Ho, ho! Our uncles have returned! Ho! Ho! 

(They scatter, some to the camp, and some to 
the landing. The sky, which has been somber, 
glows with a threatening red as the sun sinks 
into the October haze, and a sighing wind 
shakes the trees.) 

Groseilliers 

Here is a state of things to cool the blood. 
The sting of snow already in the air, 
And here no harvest, nothing garnered up. 
We'll face a famine when the ground is white. 

Radisson 

They're children, heedless children, first and last. 
Thy lore of husbandry is all forgot. 
But we can live as wildmen, snaring beasts, 
And digging roots, and sharing forest fare. 

Groseilliers 

The signs portend a winter of the worst. 
I tell thee, 'tis a famine that we face. 



44 RADISSON 

Radisson 

And welcome, Famine! Welcome, come what will 

That cometh from the honest wilderness. 

Its worst is better than the city's best, 

For here at worst there is no governor, — 

No Argenson, to thwart us, tie our hands. 

I'm back where I belong, amid mine own. 

I stretch mine arms and cry aloud, " I'm free! " 

Groseilliers 

Famine may prove a jailer with the best, 
And lacks not skill as executioner. 

Radisson 

But Famine hath no knavish itching palm. 
I'd starve with joy to cozen Argenson, — 
God's curses on the thief, the miscreant, 
The coward, traitor, liar, double thief, — 

Groseilliers 

Hold, hold ! Why waste good breath in cursing him ? 

He could not keep us back, for all his laws. 

Keep us, free trappers? Dost thou not recall 

How, when we slipped away with muffled oars 

Between the dusk and daylight, that the guard 

Who should have given alarm did call to us 

" Good speed, and quick return ! " And all the way 

The people from Three Rivers and Quebec 

Came to the water's edge to see us pass 

And cheer us with " The saints have charge of you! " 



RADISSON 45 

Radisson 

They are good people. I do not forget. 

Why, all Quebec came out three years ago 

When we returned alive from Isle Pelee, 

And towed our laden boats with shout and cheer, 

The while the guns flung out a boomed salute 

As we were kings or conquerors, — as we were. 

We came with wealth un guessed that we had won 

From hostile winter at our mortal risk. 

Never before had castor-skins been seen 

So fine and soft, so fit for royalty. 

We poured a stream of wealth upon the town. 

Was that a deed of felony, that we 

Should pay a fine, or languish in a jail? 

Groseilliers 
Why cherish memories that rouse thine ire? 

Radisson 

Let Argenson forget to plunder us, 
And then perchance my memory may cool. 
Here we, each moment of the chanceful day, 
Do place our lives upon a lucky throw 
And count it triumph if, when evening fall, 
We still have kept this coat of living flesh. 
We bear a peasant's burden on our back. 
We stay the stomach's craving with dry fish, 
And think we feast if berries from the bush, 
A meager handful, crown our lean repast. 



46 RADISSON 

In place of perfumed baths, we break our way 
Through leagues of snowdrifts; sleep upon our arms 
Lest covetous wildmen brain us for our goods 
Or, in pursuit of knowledge, cut our throats 
To see if pale-face blood be white or red. 
Is ours the pain, the labor ? Aye or no ? 

Groseilliers 
(Seating himself wearily on a pack) 
My muscles answer for me that it is. 

Radisson 

Yet Argenson would have a quarter part 

Of all our furs, to give us leave to go 

And make our battle with the wilderness! 

'Twould joy my heart to give with those same furs 

Their proper share of aches. One day in four 

Let Argenson be sweated, frozen, starved, 

Hemmed in by loneliness and hope deferred, 

Hunted and driven. Ha, the governor 

Would have some right in that case to exact 

His due proportion of the castor-skins. 

Groseilliers 

Our Argenson is but a braided thief, 
Using his office here fn far Quebec 
To set up carriages in Paris soon, 
And squeezing us until we spit out gold 
Because he hath the power. I grant thee that. 
Yet, Pierre, the government 



RADISSON 47 

Radisson 

The government! 
What hath the government to do with this, — 
This waste of loneliness? Here are no roads, 
No bridges, armies, cities, churches, schools, 
No camps or barracks, property or deeds, 
Or other instruments of government. 
Why taxes, then? Why licenses to trap, 
More than to breathe the air, or eat the roots? 

Groseilliers 

Thou art a Frenchman. Thou wouldst fight for 

France 
Against the English, bitter as thou art, 
If they should claim this land, or seek thy skill 
As trapper, for some British company. 

Radisson 

{Speaking, perhaps, with some prevision of that 
future in which he was to shift his impatient 
allegiance from France to England, then back 
to France, then again to England, dying at last 
a pensioner of the Hudson Bay Company.) 

A thousand devils, but I would not so. 

Why should the chance that I was born in France 

Hold me for life a slave to — Argenson? 

I sailed the seas beneath a dozen flags 

Ere I was twenty, and I speak the tongues 



48 RADISSON 

Of English, Turkish, Greek, the Spanish Coast, 
As readily as French or Ottawa. 
All are my brothers if they treat me well, 
But none my master. As for government, — 
I snap my fingers at its thievish claims. 

Groseilliers 

The which is treason, as thou knowest well, 
And thou wouldst e'en be quartered, like thy furs, 
If it were heard. But if it irks thee so 
To pay the license, let us quit the trade 
Of trapper, and go dwell at ease at home. 
Three Rivers will support a pedagogue 
To teach the languages, and scorn of kings, 
While I — raise gooseberries on my estate! 

Radisson 

Have thou thy jest. A life of deadly ease 
Would be a living tomb. Forbid it, Heaven! 
This is the land I love, — this wilderness, 
White, cold, mysterious, ever beckoning on, 
Ever withholding still the final gift, 

Groseilliers 

Thy mistress' eyebrow, — fringed with icicles! 
The kiss of death upon her frozen lips! — 
I know thy theme, thou rhapsodizing swain. 
A living bride would more deserve thy breath. 



RADISSON 49 

Radisson 

(Who has been brought down to earth, and 
promptly finds there an opportunity for mis- 
chief.) 

But Owera is pledged, thou'st cautioned me! 

Groseilliers 

That maggot in thy brain? God give thee sense! 
For what was folly once were madness now. 
We need the help of Anahotaha. 
We need a winter's lodging in his camp, 

(He breaks off abruptly as his keen eye catches 
signs of unusual disturbance in the camp.) 

There's tumult yonder. What hath now betid ? 

Radisson 
They gather for the gifts. 

Groseilliers 

Nay, somewhat more, 
For strangers are in parley with our friends, 
And Anahotaha doth stalk before, 
With all the native chieftain's dignity. 

Radisson 

Their steps are hereward bent. We have usurped 
The audience chamber of our woodland king. 



50 RADISSON 

Groseilliers 
We will maintain our place. It well may be 
That Anahotaha conducts them here 
To have us see and hear the argument. 

(Anahotaha enters ', followed by a party of 
miserable, half -starved strangers, Ottawas, and 
also by Wendats from the camp,) 

Anahotaha 

White chief, these Ottawas have come to us 
To offer us their wares and merchandise. 
I bade them speak again their message here, 
That ye may hear, and all may share alike. 

(The Ottawas, a poverty-stricken band, show 
the desperate straits into which the wandering 
tribes may fall. They are ragged, haggard, 
and gaunt, though they still maintain the dig- 
nity that is conferred by self-possession. As 
their chief advances to speak, a member of the 
band throws down a pack which opens and dis- 
plays the trumpery " merchandise ** which was 
the chief material of barter between the whites 
and Indians. 

A keen autumnal wind shakes down the 
leaves of the trees and seems to fleer mock- 
ingly the state of the forlorn Indians.) 

Ottawa Chief 

O brothers, it is Hunger that doth speak, 
Using our breath to fashion forth our words. 



RADISSON 51 

Cur band is hungry. Winter presseth close. 
We bring our knives of iron that we bought 
With many castor-skins, from those who trade 
Among the white men, down beside the sea. 
And here are rings and awls and iron pots, — 
Great wealth, a heap, and much to be desired. 
Yet more to be desired is life. We give 
All that we have, save life, to keep that life. 
Take what ye will, and give us of your corn. 

Wendats 
(Examining the things with childish greed) 

These wares are good. — I have no knife like this, — 
For this I offer half my bag of maize. — 
Tobacco for a month I give for these! 

Groseilliers 

(Starting up) 

'Tis madness! All will starve, if they divide 
Their scanty store of food. 

Radisson 

(Checking him) 

Thou canst not teach 
Our anxious cares to them. Eat full to-day, 
To-morrow tighten belts, and so, in time, 
Die uncomplainingly, — that is their way. 
We vex ourselves with much philosophy, 
Yet die we, none the less. I doubt we gain. 



52 RADISSON 

Groseilliers 

{With a gesture of helplessness) 

The prospect holds disaster. Now at last 
The wilderness hath caught us in its snare. 

(RadisSOn's Indians enter from lake landing, 
bringing in his loaded sleds.) 

Runners 

Come all, come all, come all! Groseilliers 

And Radisson do call you to a feast 

And offer many gifts. Come all ! Come all ! 

Ottawas 

(In high content) 

Ugh! It is well that we have come to-day. 

Now will we dwell with you and share your gifts. 

(Indians gather from all sides, men, women, 
and children, and range themselves in an eager, 
laughing crowd before the Frenchmen. 

Radisson opens the pack, and Groseil- 
liers, with ceremony, begins the distribution.) 

Groseilliers 

First gift be to the men, old men and young. 
Tobacco for your pipes, that ye may blow 
A pleasant smoke to Gitche Manitou. 

(He distributes gifts of tobacco.) 



RADISSON 53 

Men 
(In high good humor) 
Ho, ho, ho! Ho, ho! 

Radisson 

Next gift be to the women ; ribands bright, 
To deck yourselves withal, and needles fine, 
Better than thorns to draw a sinew-thread. 

(He gives gifts to the women.) 

The Women 
(With shrill manifestations of delight) 
Ki-yi — Ki-yi — Ki-yi ! Ki-yi — Ki-yi ! 

One Woman 
The most and best he gave to Owera. 

Radisson 

Where are the children? Here, together here! 
Shy little squirrels, come and try my nuts! 

( Throws gifts of bells and sugar plums among 
the children to see them scramble.) 

Where's Owera? Come, help me, Owera. 

Help me to make these droll, small children laugh. 



54 RADISSON 

Woman 

Ever his eyes are seeking Owera. 

(Anahotaha has been standing to one side 
with folded arms, watching the scene with im- 
passive countenance. Now he turns gravely to 
Ihee.) 

Anahotaha 

He calls on Owera. I like it not. 

Is it forbidden that we slay the man, 

Or send him forth to wander otherwhere? 

Ihee 
He hath great wealth. 'Twere best to keep him here. 

Anahotaha 
To keep him here how long? 

Ihee 
(Significantly) 

Until he die. 

Anahotaha 
(After a considering pause) 
That may not be so long. 

Ihee 
(Conciliating) 

'Twill not be long. 



RADISSON 55 

Radisson 

Are they not like to small brown cubs at play? 
Here, dance for me, O children! Beat the drum, 
And dance a dance for Pierre, and he will give 
This gay rosette to him who danceth best! 

Indians 

(Shouting with laughter over the antics of the 
children.) 

Ho, ho, ho, ho! Ki-yi! 

(Anahotaha moves to Owera's side and 
places a hand on her arm, as if to draw her 
apart.) 

Anahotaha 
Come to my tepee. 

OWERA 

Nay, not now, not now. 

Anahotaha 
I do not choose to wait. 

OWERA 

(Petulantly) 

I will not go. 
Take thou another maiden to thy lodge. 



56 RADISSON 

Indians 

(Gathering about RADISSON with ingenuous 
enthusiasm) 

Thou art our brother, for thine eye is keen 
As any Wendat's in the forest ways, 
Thy heart is open like the tepee door 
Where all may come and sit beside the fire. 
Be thou a brother by the ancient bond 
Of full adoption in the Wendat Tribe. 

Groseilliers 
(Aside) 
Be guarded. This may prove an irking bond. 

Radisson 

(Aside) 

Trust me to hold the bond or tight or loose 
As best may serve us. 

(To Indians.) 
Wendats of the band 
Of Anahotaha, the valorous chief, — 
(Aside) Who sulks like old Achilles in his tent,—?* 
I take the hand ye offer. I will be 
A Wendat of the Wendats, bound to you, 
As ye to me, in ties of brotherhood. 

Indians 
(Acclaiming him) 
Ho, ho, ho, ho, ho! 



RADISSON 57 

Radisson 

I will bestow good fortune on the tribe. 
When ye go forth to hunt with me, the wolves 
Will fawn upon you, like your flea-bit dogs. 
The fish will come to you withouten nets. 
The lightning will not strike you. It will know 
Ye are my brothers. 

Indians 
Ho! Ho! Ho! 

Groseilliers 

Doth trouble fatten thee, that thou must go 
Aside to seek it, madcap? Have a care. 

Radisson 

The little devils that I keep in leash 

To do my will shall serve my brothers now, 

And put our secret enemies to shame. 

Indians 

Ho, ho, ho! Choose thou of us 

One who shall be thy father in the tribe, 

And in whose wigwam thou wilt eat and sleep. 

Radisson 

A father, too? A matter asking thought! 
By Zeus and Thor and all the heathen gods, 
I choose Ihee, the man of magic craft! 



58 RADISSON 

Ihee shall be my father, and his wife 
My venerable mother; and perforce 
It follows I have gained a sister so. 
Am I a brother, Owera, to thy taste? 

Owera 

My brother is most welcome to the lodge, 
And Owera will cook his venison. 

(Anahotaha, who has listened to the unau- 
thorized overtures of his people with a dark- 
ening face, now throws off Ihee's restraining 
hand and steps forward.) 

Anahotaha 

I am the chief, the son of Sondaqua. 

The Wendats wait for me to speak the word, 

And Owera 

Radisson 

My sister! 

Anahotaha 

Knows my will. 
'Tis Anahotaha, the chief, that speaks. 

{The tension of the situation is broken by the 
opportune appearance on the height above the 
camp of old Ondata, the herb woman, who was 
sent to prepare the feast.) 



RADISSON 59 

Ondata 

The feast is ready. 

Groseilliers 

Serve it to the camp. 

(This announcement wipes out all other inter- 
est, and the Indians rush for the camp, even 
Anahotaha following with dignified delib- 
eration. The two Frenchmen are left alone, 
looking after them. All at once the sky dark- 
ens, heralding an approaching storm, and a sud- 
den, keen wind sweeps in from the lake.) 

Groseilliers 

A feast and then the famine. Sauve qui peutl 
I would the spring were here, the winter past. 

Radisson 

(With a gayety which recognizes the hazard 
and goes to meet it.) 

Oh, spring will keep the rendezvous, no fear. 
The future hath a place reserved for us. 
Shall paltry Famine check our destined course, 
Or winter hinder us, whom Fate attends? 
The stars fight for us. Winter, get thee gone! 
Have at thee, Famine! Ha, a Radisson! 



60 RADISSON 

(As he gayly strikes the attitude of a fencer, 
the long, wailing cry of the loon comes shiv- 
eringly over the water.) 

[curtain] 



ACT III 

It is the middle of March, in the following year. 
A terrible famine, foreseen by Groseilliers, has car- 
ried off half of the tribe, as well as the starveling 
Ottawas who came to beg succor. The camp of the 
remainder is now located at a small lake, — henceforth 
to be known as Knife Lake, from Radisson's gift of 
knives to the visiting Sioux, who likewise commemo- 
rate the event by taking the name of Isanti (i.e., Knife) 
Sioux. 

It is the chill hour of dawn. The stars are paling 
in the cold sky, but though light is dawning it is with- 
out warmth. A group of Indian women, the entire 
figure shrouded in a blanket or robe, are crouched on 
the ground under the trees, wailing aloud for those 
who have died, and whose decorations and personal 
belongings are hung upon the trees in sacrifice and for 
memory. Among the women is Owera. 

The bare trees of the mourning grove close about 
the scene, but in the foreground is an open space. 

Radisson, haggard and gaunt, but retaining his old 
dauntlessness of bearing, enters and stands unnoticed 
while the women sing their Song of Wailing. 

Women 
Ai, ai, ai! 

To the land of shadows have they fled away, 

61 



62 RADISSON 

Those we loved, our brothers, 
Those who gave us counsel, 
Those who hunted for us, 

Ai, ai, ai! 

Af, ai, ai! 

To the land of shadows have they fled away, 
They, the little children, 
Tender little weaklings. 
All our joy hath followed. 

Ai, ai, ai! 

Ai, ai, ai! 

From the cold winter have they fled away, 
From the pain of hunger, 
From the woe of weeping 
To the land of shadows. 

Ai, ai, ai! 

Radisson 

(Coming forward and speaking with grave authority) 

Let cease your wailing. Those who fled away 
Have found the end of sorrow. Peace to them. 
But we who still remain upon the earth 
Have tasks to do, and so we may not weep. 
The sap that shrank away to hide in roots 
Is surging upward. Soon the trees will leaf, 
And berries grow, and fish begin to leap. 
The famine-time hath passed ; the mourning time 
For those that died hath likewise passed ; and now 



RADISSON 63 

The nations gather for a Friendship Feast. 
Go to your tasks, O Women ! Hide your grief. 

{With the meek submissiveness of the Indian 
women, they muffle their heads in their blan- 
kets and slip noiselessly away among the trees, 
— all but Owera, who remains crouching on 
the ground.) 

Radisson 

Come, Owera, the time for grief is past. 
Lift up thy head, and smile. 

Owera 

Can Owera lift 
Ever again her head, or ever smile, 
She who hath brought a curse upon her tribe? 

Radisson 

{Smiling) 

And hast thou brought a curse ? Here's mighty news ! 
This maiden Owera, whom I can raise 
Thus, with a touch, she is so very thin 
From lack of food, is strong to bring a curse 
Upon her tribe! Then tell me, wicked one, 
What is it thou hast done, to now repent? 

Owera 

{With drooping head) 
I brought the famine. Thence came many deaths. 



64 RADISSON 

Radisson 

Methought the famine came from lack of food, 
Because the snow was deeper on the earth 
Than to mine eyebrows, and it filled the air 
Until the sun was darkened with the fog; 
Because the wind had driven off the beasts; 
And there had been no harvest. Was't not so? 

OWERA 

(Accepting and echoing Ihee's explanation of 
the failure of his medicine-making) 

Ah, no, the famine was a punishment 

Because of sin. I brought it on the tribe 

Because of willfulness. The Manitou, 

Who looked within my heart, was much displeased. 

Radisson 

Thy tender little heart! I've seen thee give 
Thy meager share of food to ease the cry 
Of dying children, till I wept to see. 
What is the hidden evil in thy heart? 

OWERA 

I would not wed with Anahotaha. 

Radisson 
Oh, ho! I see. Was that a grievous sin? 



RADISSON 65 

OWERA 

It is a sin a maid should not obey 
Her father's wishes and the chief's command. 
So long ago I have forgot the time, 
It was agreed between the Owl, Ihee, 
And Sondaqua, the chief, that we must wed 
When Sondaqua should die, and that his son 
Receive the Sachem's robe and lead the band. 
I knew it was decreed. And yet — and yet 
I held myself apart. In willfulness. 

Radisson 
{Watching her under his eyelids) 
Was Anahotaha unpleasing, then? 

OWERA 

{In simple honesty) 

Nay, he is brave. And once he slew a bear 
That sought to drag me from the lodge at night. 

Radisson 

Would I had been there! That I envy him. 

Why, then, so cold? Wouldst thou remain unwed? 

OWERA 

I dreamed of other ways. The black robes came 
When I was small, and talked of wondrous things, — 
Of prayers and dress and modesty, and rings 



66 RADISSON 

To wear upon the finger, and of heaven. 

Their talk was wonderful as any tale 

My Grandam told. But this, they said was true. 

I know not. But they marked me on the brow 

With holy water. Then my people fled 

Before the Iroquoits, and hid themselves 

In this far land, where black robes never come. 

And then — and then — thou cam'st. 

Radisson 

I came. — And then? 

Owera 

Thy tales were like the tales the black robes told 
For wonder, but more beautiful and strange. 
The marvel hurt me, here. I longed to go 
To see thy world, — to be a part of it. 
My heart was full of dreams, as evening sky 
Is full of rosy light. But it is naught. 
The sunset fades, for it is made of dreams, 
And leaves an empty sky to watch our sleep. 

Radisson 

Even here, thou child of nature! Even here! 
The longing of the earth-bound for the sky! 

{The Eastern sky, which has been growing 
faintly bright, now breaks into white light as 
the sun rises behind the trees.) 



RADISSON 67 

OWERA 

And so, when Anahotaha would woo, 
I thought of thee, and held myself apart. 

Radisson 
My Owera! For me? Was it for me? 

OWERA 

The others thought thou wert a god, but I 
Who shared my father's counsels as a child, 
I knew thee for a man of other race. 
I hid from Anahotaha. A sin! 

Radisson 

No sin, but love! Sweet child, thy heart is clear 
As mountain streamlet, showing sand of gold 
Beneath the ripples. Thou hast shown me love! 
And I will claim thee — take thee — hold thee! 
Come to me! 

Owera 

(Drawing back) 
But — Anahotaha? It were a sin! 

Radisson 
He? Nay, he will forget. 



68 RADISSON 

OWERA 

And thou wilt not? 
I saw, in other days, how white men came 
And took them wives, and dwelt a little time, 
And then departed gayly. But the wives 
Were never gay again. The black robes said 
It was a sin to wed without a ring. 
Their children were burnt sticks, the people said, — 
Burnt in the fire, and quenched. They were not gay. 

Radisson 

My Owera, if thou wilt be my wife 
I will not leave thee ever, nor forget. 

Owera 
But will our children be burnt sticks no less? 

Radisson 

Why, that will be — of that I cannot say! 
The gods must ever meddle in affairs! 
It is a mystery, my Owera. 

A Runner 

(Entering hastily in search of Radisson) 

The envoys from the nation to the west 

Have come with gifts to join the Friendship Feast, 

And even now their women raise their tents 

In the allotted portion of the field. 



RADISSON 69 

Radisson 

Go tell my brother. 

(Exit Runner to the left.) 
There will be a feast 
Of many nations when they all arrive, 
With games of skill and strength to fill the days, 
And dancing of the strangers in the night. 
Shall it not be our wedding feast, as well? 

OWERA 

(Drawing back) 
My father saith my sin hath brought the woe 
Of famine on the nation. I must wait 
And seek a guiding answer in my dreams. 

Radisson 
But soon, my rose? The answer will be soon? 
My brother purposes that we should go 
On other trails for furs. He would return 
To far Quebec beside the Bitter Sea. 

But I This winter laid an iron hand 

Upon my heart. We two have looked on death. 

It is a bond we may not break at will. 

Bid me to stay, and he shall go alone 

Back to the French, while I remain — with thee. 

OWERA 

(Still holding aloof) 
Not yet. I cannot feel the answer here. 
Go thou apart a little. Then return 



70 RADISSON 

After the moon hath wakened from her sleep, 
And Owera will know the trail to take. 

Radisson 

Yet thou wilt be my handmaid at the feast, 
As we have talked, and bear my redstone pipe, 
And walk in the procession just before, 
That other chiefs may see and envy me? 
Thou wilt not hide within thy tent to-day ? 

Another Runner 
(Entering from the other side) 
The envoys from the nation to the south, 
The Nadouesioux, the Nation of the Beef, 
Are drawing near, and ask an audience. 
Their young men, naked, run across the snow 
To prove their hardihood, for they are fierce, 
The Buffalo people, and have never heard 
Of white men's fashions, iron, and black-robe talk. 

Radisson 

Go seek my brother. 

(Runner exit to the left.) 

Thou wilt not refuse 
To bear my pipe before me when we go 
To meet the strangers and to smoke with them? 

OWERA 

To-day I am thy maiden. I obey. 

What comes to-morrow, that my dreams will say. 



RADISSON 71 

(She muffles her head and slips away like a 
dark shadow.) 

Groseilliers 

(Entering from the left in gay spirits) 

The envoys come from north and south and west 
To join the games and share our scanty feast. 
After the famine, feasts are easy made! 
Mon Dieuj another week, and I had lost 
The art of eating, for this world, at least. 

Radisson 

(Somberly) 

Five hundred lost it, 'ere the sun broke through 
The cloud of snow, and raised the heavy pall. 
The winter camp hath left a mound of graves, 
Yet now — they feast! 

Groseilliers 

They do. And me to thank! 
Our business needs we put them in good cheer. 

Radisson 

Business and barter somehow seem less great. 
Dost thou recall the dog I stole from those 
Who came to traffic, holding close his throat 
To keep him silent, lest his owner guess? 
And when I plunged my dagger in his heart 
The Wendats gathered up the spattered snow 



72 RADISSON 

To make the soup and let no drop be lost! 
Yet Argenson would have a quarter part! 

Groseilliers 

What, hath the famine left a mark on thee 

That food will not displace? Forget thy cares. 

Thy thin and beardless cheeks have won thee friends. 

Thou'st suffered with them, so I hear them say; 

But I, because a black beard hid my jowl, 

Do get no credit for my skin and bones. 

I am a god and live by secret food, 

Whilst thou'rt a man and brother, whom they love! 

Radisson 
(Speaking with some embarrassment) 
'Tis true I am a man. That minds me say 



Groseilliers 

Say what? Thy voice is tangled in thy words 

Like stammering schoolboy's. Is there evil news? 

Radisson 

Nay, nothing new. That is, Nay, nothing new. 

And yet, I'd have thee know my mind is bent 

Groseilliers 

Is bent on getting home! I know it well! 
I share thy longing. Now the snow is gone 



RADISSON 73 

It doth behoove us that we make all haste 

To gather furs from bands on every side. 

To that end have I bidden to the feast 

The ancient enemies from north and south, 

The Crees and the Ojibways and the Sioux, 

To bind them unto peace, that they may spend 

Rather their strength in hunting than in war, — 

By which we thrive. And when the feast is done, 

With seven days of games and tournament, 

Then thou and I will journey with the Sioux, 

The people of the Buffalo, who return 

Down to their country, which, I gather, lies 

Beyond our former camp on Isle Pelee. 

For they have ancient claim upon the land 

Where meet the Sky-Stream and the Father-Stream, 

And there is easy portage by small lakes 

Where rapids in the river bar the way. 

There we will barter for the silver fox 

And beaver, and what else may serve our turn, 

And so go northward by the river trail 

Back to our cache beside the Upper Lake 

And find the goods we left our devils to watch — 

Ha, ha! — that w T as a happy thought of thine! 

Then home, by lake and sault, — to Marguerite. 

Radisson 

(Dismayed at this rapid programme) 

But we return again to these our friends 
Ere we depart? 



74 RADISSON 

Groseilliers 

Not so. The trail lies east, — 
A well-marked river trail, to reach the lake 
Where first we came ashore and hid our goods. 

Radisson 
But I — but Owera 

Groseilliers 

{Startled and suddenly attentive) 

But who? But what? 
Art thou a trapper? We are here for furs. 

Radisson 
But I — but I would wed with Owera. 

Groseilliers 

Now Heaven preserve thy wits. Thy brain is weak 
From famine. Thou, a Radisson, wouldst wed — 
Thy word! — a beaded savage from the wilds? 

Radisson 
She is no savage. She hath been baptized! 

Groseilliers 

Has't changed her blood? What serves for Saint 

Pierre 
Will scarce suffice his namesake here on earth. 



RADISSON 75 

Oh, I can see excuse in time and place 

For youth's delirium, — that's another tale. 

But wed! And now, when we must pack and tramp, 

And travel fast and far, and travel light! 

Thou'rt mad, my word for it, so say no more, 

But play thy part in this last fantasy 

Of savage grandeur. Mark, the envoys come. 

Radisson 

Medard, I am no boy. My word to thine, — 

I will return, and speak with Owera 

Before we take the trail for old Quebec. 

I will, I say, — I will! — The envoys, mark! 



(Anahotaha, Ihee, and other Wendats en- 
ter, conducting five Sioux envoys who have 
come to announce the approach of their people 
for the Friendship Feasi prepared by GROSEIL- 
liers. The Sioux, " the Iroquois of the 
West'' have never before this moment beheld 
white men, or known their many inventions, 
and their curiosity is mingled with awe. Their 
dress is entirely of skins of animals, their 
weapons are bows and arrows and stone 
hatchets. Each envoy carries a belt of wam- 
pum to offer as the "gift" which must accom- 
pany a prayer or petition. 

The Sioux, " the People of the Beef," are 
hereditary enemies of the Crees and Ojibways, 
and have had trouble with the Wendats at Isle 
Pelee; but Groseilliers' policy is to reconcile 



76 RADISSON 

all these differences, in order to turn the tribal 
energies into hunting furs for him instead of 
fighting. Hence this " Friendship Feast," at 
which the Wendats are guests instead of hosts. 
While Groseilliers is welcoming the Sioux 
envoys, some of the young Wendats build a 
small fire with twigs and sticks in the center, 
in order that the pipes may be lit from it.) 

Anahotaha 
These strangers come from tribes unknown to us. 

Groseilliers 

My runners carried gifts to all the tribes. 
I bid them hearty welcome. Let them speak. 

First Envoy 

White Chiefs, the rumor of your presence here 

Hath spread abroad, and some there be that doubt, 

And some believe. But now our eyes have seen. 

And if ye be the gods, as many say, 

And have the power to lay waste the world, 

And bring or stay the famine, send the game 

Or cover it with shadows, at a word, 

We ask you read our hearts, and of your grace 

Withhold your anger and extend your love. 

(Offers his belt by laying it at GROSEILLIERS' 
feet.) 



RADISSON 77 

Second Envoy 

(Offering belt) 

The oldest women of the tribe have sent 
This belt of wampum, and their prayer is this: 
That water may not fail, nor they become 
Too weak to carry wood upon the back. 

Third Envoy 

(Offering belt) 

Our children, born, and yet to see the light, 
Ask, by this belt, that theirs be room to play 
And sport unchecked by any fear of harm. 

Fourth Envoy 

(Offering belt) 

The fourth belt from our young men fit to hunt, 
Who beg, if ye be gods, that they may go 
Freely throughout the forest, hunting food 
To feed their aged, without let or fear. 

Fifth Envoy 

(Offering belt) 

The men of age, the warriors, send by this 
A prayer that lightning may not strike, nor rain 
Destroy the lodges, neither may the wind 
Uproot the forests or obscure the trails. 
Yet if ye be not gods, but hostile chiefs 
That come to spy our land, they ask by this 



78 RADISSON 

That ye lay bare your hearts, and let your words, 
Like runners bearing gifts, declare your will. 

Groseilliers 
{Accepting the offering) 

Our will is peace to you and all the tribes 
That ask for our protection. We are come 
Across the Salted Lake to make to cease 
The wars between the People of the Beef 
And other tribes ye hold in enmity. 
All are our brothers. Be at peace henceforth. 
(Aside to Radisson) Bring out the gifts and sweeten 
them with talk. 

Radisson 

(Opening a pack ready prepared) 

And for a token, hatchets made of iron, 
Sharper than flint, we give to each of you. 
Big medicine are they. Your enemies 
Will fall before them as a riven tree 
Before a flash of lightning. To your wives 
We give these magic mirrors made of tin. 
Who looks therein at once grows beautiful. 
Her cheeks grow fat as bears in summer time. 
This is our gift, in answer to your gifts. 

Anahotaha 
(To the Sioux) 

Do ye take gifts from those that love your foes? 
Even so unto the Cristinos they spake, 



RADISSON 79 

Your ancient enemies who dwell above 

The Upper Lake. To them they offered gifts. 

Radisson 

{Interfering) 

Thou speakest truth, O Anahotaha! 

Think'st thou, perchance, that we should ask thy 

leave ? 
Full eighteen tribes will come to eat with us 
The feast of friendship, smoke the calumet, 
The pipe of peace and counsel. They will come 
Guests of my brother, mark you, and myself. 
Have we your leave to entertain our friends? 

Groseilliers 

{Aside to Radisson) 

'Twere well if thou wouldst take a whiff or two 
Of that same pipe of counsel and of peace. 

Radisson 

More, I myself have gone among the Crees 

To bid them come and feast, and bring their 

pelts. 
And if I find an evil spirit here 
To whisper treachery and turn our feast 
Into a slaughter, I will deal with him 
So it is talked of for a hundred years, 



80 RADISSON 

Groseilliers 
(Aside to Radisson) 

Thou art as easy ruffled as a cock 

In mating season. Come and play thy part. 

(To envoys) Before we go to watch the warriors 

dance 
And see the young men at their games of skill 
Enact the chase, and show in pantomime 
How they pursue the foe, and drive the herd, 
Here will we pass the sacred calumet 
Among our friends, the envoys, drinking smoke 
As those who make a peace between their tribes. 
And first, before we draw the smoke ourselves, 
We all will throw tobacco on the coals 
To win the favor of the Manitou. 

The Chiefs 
Tobacco for the Manitou! Ho! Ho! 

Groseilliers 
(Aside to Radisson) 
Hast thou prepared the powder for our turn? 

Radisson 
A little, wetted. Much we may not spare. 

Groseilliers 

Our greeting to the Mighty Spirit! Ho! 

( The Indians circle about the fire, each throw- 
ing a pinch of tobacco on the coals. When the 



RADISSON 81 

turn comes of GROSEILLIERS and RADISSON, 
they throw tobacco mixed with gunpowder, and 
an explosion follows.) 

The Chiefs 
{Tumbling backward) 
The white men must be devils! Let us flee. 

Radisson 
{Smoking with great composure) 

Return, and put away your childish fear. 
Why do ye tremble at a puff of fire 
Blown by our little devils in the flame? 
They only tried to steal a breath of smoke, 
Knowing the good tobacco that we drink. 

The Chiefs 
{Returning cautiously) 
Doth it not burn within? 

Radisson 

We mind it not. 
Such the tobacco that we always use. 
We are big chiefs, whom all the devils obey. 

Groseilliers 

{Aside to Radisson) 

Yet thou wouldst have me think that thou wouldst wed 
Among these childish people. Pooh, a dream ! 



82 RADISSON 

Now let us make us ready for the feast. 

(To chiefs) We join you shortly, where the field is 

bare 
Between the new-set tepees, for the games. 

(Radisson and Groseilliers go out to the 
left.) 

Sioux Chiefs 

(Among themselves) 

Yet surely they are devils, breathing fire. 
It will be well that we enrage them not. 

(They go out to the right,) 

Anahotaha 

(Who has watched the proceedings with 
marked lack of sympathy) 

If they be gods or devils or but men, 
I will not stand aside. I am the chief! 
Why do the nations offer gifts to them, 
And none at all to me, who am the chief? 

Ihee 

The feast is of their giving. It is good. 

Anahotaha 

I grudge it not to Gooseberry, for he 
Is wise, a chief at heart. But Radisson, — 
He talks too much aside with Owera. 
I will not have it so. Am I the chief? 



RADISSON 83 

Ihee 

Nay, very soon they leave us for the south, 
Departing with the Sioux on their return. 
A chief can hide his heart and bide his time. 

Anahotaha 

My heart is tugging hard upon its bonds. 

(There enters an elaborate procession, moving 
across the field on the way to the place set for 
the games. First come the young men of the 
WendatSy their warriors, carrying bows and 
arrows, and wearing the gayest headdresses of 
feathers and furs and porcupine quills; then the 
young men of the Sioux, with painted faces 
and bodies, feathers in their hair, and trailing 
tails at the moccasin heel; then the young men 
of the Crees, wearing furs, and carrying snow- 
shoes. All the young men carry weapons. 

Then the old men and chiefs of the several 
tribes follow, wearing ceremonial dress, and 
each carrying a pipe. 

Then the personal escort of the Frenchmen, 
— first four men carrying their guns; then four 
men carrying kettles and bowls heaped up with 
trinkets for " gifts " ; then Owera, carrying 
RadiSSOn's redstone pipe uplifted in both 
hands, while another maiden bears Groseil- 
liers'. The girls wear their gayest dress, with 
many adornments of beads and trinkets. 



84 RADISSON 

Radisson and Groseilliers follow in state. 
To satisfy the Indians* idea of grandeur, they 
have assumed all the adornments possible, — 
embroidered cloaks, necklaces, rolls of fur 
trimmed with porcupine quills upon their heads, 
like crowns. Knives and pistols are at the belt. 

Following them comes the undistinguished 
huddle of an Indian camp, men, women, and 
children, gay with incongruous adornment, all 
pressing forward, yet masking their curiosity 
and eagerness with an air of self-possessed 
dignity.) 

Anahotaha 

(To Ihee) 

Hast thou ordained that Owera should bear 
His pipe before the nations gathered here? 

Ihee 

He hath great wealth of knives and bells and awls, 
And he will soon depart and take it hence. 

(As Radisson passes he notices Anahotaha 
and Ihee standing apart, and calls to them.) 

Radisson 

Ihee, my father, — Anahotaha, 

My brother-chief, why stand ye thus apart? 

Come, join my retinue, and give me aid 



RADISSON 85 

In welcoming the chiefs of other tribes. 
For ye are of my household, I of yours. 
When I return from traffic with the Sioux, 
This speech recall. I'll make it clear to you. 

(He goes on with procession,) 

Anahotaha 

My heart will know no peace till he is dead. 
If he return, I slay him. It is said. 

[curtain] 



"THE FEAST OF FRIENDSHIP" 

A Wordless Pageant 
(Interlude between Acts III and IV) 

An open, clear space in the forest, inclosed by close- 
set bushes not yet in leaf, has been prepared for the 
celebration of the " Feast of Friendship." A " medi- 
cine-pole " has been erected, — a tall pole decorated 
with feathers and fluttering streamers. At its foot 
is the large drum of ceremony, made of untanned hide 
stretched upon a frame, and supported by four curved 
stakes driven into the ground. Four or five drum- 
mers squat about it, each with his drumstick and his 
pipe of ceremony upon a buffalo-robe at his side. 

The Indians, men, women, and children, gather si- 
lently from all sides. Those who are about to take 
part in the dance squat in a circle about the medicine- 
pole, while the others dispose themselves as observers 
about the sides of the field. The visiting Sioux wear 
robes of buffalo-skin, breast-plates of porcupine quills, 
and necklaces of bear-claws. At each moccasin heel 
is fastened the tail of a fox, or other animal, which 
trails on the ground. Their headdresses are fantastic 
beyond imagination, — made of buffalo horns, turkey 
feathers, rolls of beaver-skin, and porcupine quills. As 

86 



RADISSON 87 

they have never come into contact with the whites be- 
fore, they have no woven cloth in their garments, which 
are composed entirely of skins. Their young men, 
and those taking part in the dances and games, are 
naked except for moccasins, loin cloth, headdress, and 
occasionally a decorative tail of feathers fastened to 
a belt. Their weapons are hammers and hatchets made 
of sharp stones tied to a stick, and bows and arrows. 
Some carry shields of buffalo-skin stretched upon a 
round frame, and decorated with feathers. Their 
faces and bodies are painted. 

The visiting Crees, who come from the northern 
shore of Lake Superior, are characteristically dressed 
in furs. Their hair is flowing, whereas the Sioux 
and Wendats wear theirs braided; and their caps of 
fur are ornamented with the tails of animals. Their 
armlets and other ornaments are of copper and of 
shells. 

The Wendats wear their customary dress of deer- 
skin leggings and shirts, together with traders' blan- 
kets and broadcloth, with the addition of ceremonial 
robes, feather decorations, and ornaments. 

When the crowds have gathered, the procession 
which passed at the close of Act III enters in the 
same order. After crossing the field, Groseilliers 
and Radisson seat themselves on an elevated place 
which has been erected at one side. Their immediate 
attendants close up about them, the other Indians range 
themselves lower down and in the background, most 
of them reclining upon the ground. 

A Sioux warrior, wearing a war-bonnet of black 



88 RADISSON 

eagle feathers which reaches to the ground behind him, 
approaches the Frenchmen, and offers a redstone pipe, 
with stem five feet long, decorated with feathers. 
Groseilliers fills it with tobacco, and signs to 
Owera, who lights it with a live coal. Groseilliers 
and Radisson each draw a puff, and return the pipe 
to the Sioux, who lifts it to the four corners of heaven 
and then draws a puff and passes it back to the other 
Sioux, who hand it about among themselves, each 
drawing a puff. The Sioux then throws his painted 
cloak at the feet of Groseilliers and sings a song to 
the accompaniment of the drum, expressing his thank- 
fulness that he has seen " these terrible men, whose 
words make the earth to quake." Radisson answers 
with a gay French spng, which is listened to with 
grave attention. Groseilliers gives out his " gifts " 
of trinkets to the various tribes. 

The drummers resume the rhythmic beat which ac- 
companies their dancing, and as it gets into the blood 
of the performers they spring up and begin to dance, 
one here, another there, until finally the whole circle 
is moving. The savage dance has a hypnotic effect 
upon the performers themselves and works them up 
into a frenzy. It begins with a rhythmic shifting of 
the weight from one foot to the other, accompanied 
by a bending of the knees, and a slapping of the sole 
on the ground, always in time with the drum, but 
on this foundation each dancer develops his own fan- 
tasies. Some circle stolidly about in time with the 
drum-beat, some double the time, some bend the knees 
and swoop along the ground, or shake the limbs to 



RADISSON 89 

show agility. Some enact with dramatic pantomime 
following the trail of the enemy, lying in ambush, com- 
ing upon him, fighting and overcoming him, tying him 
to a stake, — all to the measured beat of the drums. 
Others enact the sentry, listening with ear to the 
ground, giving an alarm, retreating under cover. 

A buffalo-dance follows, in which the chase and cap- 
ture of a herd of buffaloes are enacted. The sentry 
brings word of the herd, the warriors throw aside all 
superfluous clothing and snatch up spears and clubs; 
some assume a mask of a buffalo head and cover their 
arms and back with buffalo-skin, while others, as stalk- 
ers, creep ahead under covering of a whole white wolf- 
skin. They creep stealthily upon an imagined herd, 
surround it with wild shouts and leapings, throw 
spears, force the herd over a precipice, and the women 
gather to skin the animals, while the braves dance 
in victory. 

The Crees give a dance on snowshoes, showing their 
skill in using these clumsy implements. Also a bear- 
dance, each dancer wearing a bear's head, and flopping 
his arms from the elbow in the fashion of a bear walk- 
ing upright. 

The women do not join in the dances with the men, 
but occasionally they form a circle of their own at 
one side, moving always in a slow circling sweep to 
the right, bending the knees at each step, but other- 
wise keeping the body rigid. Occasionally they punc- 
tuate their own dance or accent the dance of the men 
with a shrill falsetto cry — "Ki-yi!" — which cuts 
weirdly across the heavier " Ho, ho!" of the men. 



90 RADISSON 

Sometimes one and sometimes all of them at once will 
break into a song. 

Formal games and contests in skill follow. A pole 
is set up, a scalp hung upon it, and one warrior after 
another shoots an arrow into the pole. When he suc- 
ceeds he sings a short song, boastfully recounting some 
great exploit; when he fails he is hooted by the 
watchers. 

A netted hoop is set rolling, and the archers run 
alongside and shoot through the open places in the 
net. This is a game, in which the space pierced and 
the way the arrows fall are counted as " points." 

The game of " snow snakes " consists of throwing 
curved sticks, or spears, on a cleared space of ice. 

A game of la crosse is played, with different tribes 
on opposing sides. Contests in racing, stilt contests, 
and climbing a pole for a prize placed by Radisson at 
the top, fill out the programme. The Indians laugh 
easily and explosively at any mishaps to the contestants. 

At the sides, here and there, little groups are play- 
ing gambling games, like the moccasin game, the hand 
game, the game of the dish, and the game of sticks. 
Here and there a woman juggles balls in the air. 
Groups of beggars go about, dancing the Begging 
Dance and singing the Begging Song — which may 
not be denied! 

The ceremonies are concluded when Groseilliers' 
Indians bring in great kettles of cooked meat, from 
which all eat, while Radisson sings French songs. 

[curtain] 



ACT IV 

A vast snow-covered plain. Fringing it in the dis- 
tance are dark borders of pine and spruce, from which 
comes now and again the questing bark of the wolf, 
ending in an ominous howl. The sun is setting in an 
angry glare, throwing a blood-red glow upon the 
wind-blown hillocks of snow. As it sinks below the 
horizon the glow fades, and snow begins to fall, hard 
and sharp as frozen sand. 

The wolf howls again, and Radisson, who has been 
lying in a huddled heap upon the ground, pulls himself 
to his feet. He looks toward the wood, toward the 
sunset, and staggers forward a few paces. Then he 
sinks beside a bare bush. The wolf howls again. 
Radisson pulls himself up by the aid of the bush, and 
speaks, 

Radisson 

Is this the end, Pierre? — The end? — The end? 
An end must come in time. Is this the place? — 
'Tis now five days that I have forced my limbs 
Beyond the torture point to bear me on 
Across the solitary, endless waste, 
And they have shrieked with pain till they are dead. 
Good legs, they're dead, I tell thee. They no more 
Can move than dead men, stretched upon the snow, 

9i 



92 RADISSON 

Flapping a scarf-end for a show of life. 

O treacherous Ottawas! A thieving set! 

Medard will wait to keep the rendezvous, 

And wonder. Good Medard! He'll blame himself 

Because I took the heavier sled from him 

To ease him, I, the younger. Could I know 

The ice was rotten with the mounting sun? 

The freezing water clutched me to the thigh 

With devil fingers. But I saved the sled. 

It bore the merchandise that held our life. 

His life, at least. He'll miss me, poor Medard, — 

A cruel mistress, that is what he said, — 

This wilderness I loved. And so it is, 

And when did lover love the less for that? — 

fair and cold, I die upon thy breast, 
And thou wilt hold me as no woman hath, 
My restless heart at peace within thine arms, 
Forever and forever. Thee I sought, 

Thee have I thought to conquer to my will. 

1 die, instead, but die upon thy breast. 

And so I triumph! Thou shalt ne'er be free 
From me, my name and memory, O beloved! 
Thou'rt mine at last. Now — kiss me on the lips! 

(He sinks down again and lies in a stupor.) 

Anahotaha, wearing a cloak of white beaver- 
skins over the light equipment of a scout, comes 
upon the scene at the back. He pauses to look 
abroad, and then comes swiftly down on 
Radisson's trail. Leaning over the fallen man, 
he speaks and puts out his hand to shake him.) 



RADISSON 93 

Anahotaha 

Ugh, dead? I come too late. White chief, awake! — 
Awake, and die again, for I would see. 

Radisson 

ousing himself} 

What, Anahotaha? Art thou a dream, 
Or flesh ? — My brother sent to seek me here ? 

Anahotaha 

Thy brother sent me not. I came in hate. 
I am no friend. I come to see thee die. 

Radisson 

(Lifting himself up) 

Thou giv'st me life, nathless. My thanks! But why 
Should Anahotaha become my foe? 

Anahotaha 

Because the white chief came across my path 
When I was — hunting deer. Dost lack for food? 

Radisson 

(Carrying his role to the end) 

I? Lack for food? 'Tis true my fast is now 
Near five days old, my friend; but that is naught. 
My devil feedeth me when I command 
With broth that lifts my heart and keeps me strong! 



94 RADISSON 

Anahotaha 

{Taking food from his own pouch to test him) 

Thine eyes are hollow as a starving man's. 
Yet clear enough they see to note the food 
I take from out my pouch — and eat alone. 
Thou wilt not beg a crumb? Thou art a brave! 
Yet none the less shalt die. And here I stay 
To watch thine eyeballs glaze, thy lips to crack, 
Thy limbs to twist in torture. I will bend 
To drink the rattle in thy dying throat 
As lover bends to hear his mistress breathe. 

Radisson 
We have been friends. Why turn against me now? 

Anahotaha 

We never have been friends. My father knew. 
He saw ye were the stronger in your hearts, 
And in the silent words ye do not speak, 
And in the thoughts that hide behind the eyes. 
The gods have given you the lead. The race 
Is yours before we start. Can we be friends? 

Radisson 
Yet need'st thou slay me? 

Anahotaha 

I have longed at times 
To break and trample in the dust your guns, 



RADISSON 95 

Your shining things, your wonder-cutting knives. 
Why was it given to you and not to us 
To know the secret? 

Radisson 
{Suddenly) 

Hark! Be still, and hark! 

Runners 

{Heard calling in the distance, but out of sight) 
Oho! Oho! Oho! Pierre! Oho! 

Radisson 

They come! They search for me! 

(Anahotaha throws himself upon Radisson, 
bearing him to the ground, and covers their 
bodies with his white beaver-robe, indistin- 
guishable against the snow.) 

Anahotaha 
Lie still, white chief. 

Runners 

{Departing) 

Oho, Pierre! Pierre! {Faint in the distance.) 

Oho! O-ho! 



96 RADISSON 

Radisson 
(Struggling free and speaking with deadly calm) 
Thou art a devil, Anahotaha. 

Anahotaha 

I am a brave, and I will wear thy scalp 
Adangle at my belt to show to all 
I overcame the white chief in the end. 
Which is the better now, or thou, or I? 
For all thy guns which is the better now? 

(Realizing at last the sinister significance of 
Anahotaha's hostility and the hopelessness of 
his situation, Radisson takes swift command 
of his soul. Turning carelessly from Ana- 
hotaha he folds his arms and sings a lilting 
song.) 

Radisson 

Die we may and die we must. 
Dust will crumble unto dust. 
Soon or late will come a day 
Earth we love will slip away. 

Anahotaha 
Thou art a brave, yet I shall see thee die 
Little by little, fighting still for hope. 

Radisson 
(Singing) 

If then the happy chance befall 
To die with back against the wall 



RADISSON 97 

Why, take it as a crowning grace 

That death should choose no meaner place. 

Anahotaha 

A strong-heart song. And since there is no fear 

Within thine eye, nor tremor in thy voice, 

I will forego thy torture. Even more, — 

I'll give thee back thy life and bear thee home 

If thou in turn wilt give thy word to me — 

The word of truth that thou art wont to use 

With other white men, not the easy lie 

Ye give, like toys, to redmen, — give thy truth 

That thou wilt leave the Wendat land, and go 

Back to thine own, and trouble us no more. 



What else? 



If I refuse? 



Radisson 

Anahotaha 

And that thou leav'st me Owera. 

Radisson 
Anahotaha 



Thou'lt take the Road of Death, 
And that will lead thee far from Owera. 

(From the shadowy forest the wolfs howl is 
repeated, and answered.) 



98 RADISSON 

Radisson 

I've seen the deer I shot, upon its knees, 

Look at my dagger with a tranquil eye. 

Think'st thou a deer can better Radisson? 

Thou canst not touch me, Anahotaha. 

My limbs are locked as in a trap that's sprung, 

And bound in chains of fire. But I, within, 

Can look thee in the eye and laugh at thee. 

The moment that thy dagger spills my blood 

I shall escape thee. Shall I bargain, then, 

For life, as for a peltry, giving up 

My will to thee, to win a little breath, 

And thy contempt, and mine? I will not! Strike! 

Anahotaha 
A panther, and no deer, it is I slay, 



(He grasps Radisson's throat and lifts his dag- 
ger. There is a short struggle, and then a cry 
comes across the snow. Startled, Anahotaha 
drops his hold on Radisson, who gets to his 
feet. Both stare toward the back, where 
Owera appears, approaching rapidly on snow- 
shoes. She cries again.) 

Owera 

O Anahotaha! 

(She comes up swiftly and looks from one to 
another.) 

I came in time! 



RADISSON 99 

Radisson 

{Laughing in sudden revulsion to hope) 

And naught to spare! Yet time is time enough. 
My brother and the others, — are they near? 

OWERA 

(Breathless) 

I came alone. I saw the Ottawas 

Come into camp. Their tongues were ever false 

Because their hearts are covetous. I saw 

That Anahotaha had slipped away. 

I knew he took the trail. I followed him, 

For there is none so sure to find the trail 

As Anahotaha. 

Anahotaha 

(In a sort of bewildered rage) 

And none so strong. 
A bison in a rage is not so strong, 
And I could slay you both. What holds my hand? 

OWERA 

(With the serene dignity of one who sees be- 
yond the moment) 

Then thou wilt slay thy wife, for I am come 
To say to Anahotaha, the chief, 
That I am ready. 



ioo RADISSON 

Radisson 

Not to save my life! 
Nay, Owera, I would not take my life 
At cost of love and liberty to thee. 

Anahotaha 
To buy his life, — is that why thou hast come? 

Owera 

(With grave dignity) 

His life shall be the gift my husband brings 
To me, his bride, in place of beaver-robes, 
And I do give it now to Radisson, — 
A gift at parting, as our custom is. 
I was bewildered for a time. I lost 
Our ancient skill to read the secret signs 
That guide my people over trackless wastes. 
I dreamed of other customs, smoother trails. 
And felt myself the wiser for the sign 
The black robes set upon my childish brow, 
And so I scorned my people, and withheld 
My heart from Anahotaha, who sued. 
And then the famine came, in punishment, 
And understanding fell upon my heart. 
My place is here and not beyond the sea. 
The gods have set me here, not otherwhere. 
If I have wisdom, they have greater need, — 
My people. Anahotaha and I 
Must lead them on the weary trail they go. 
My head is bowed to take the burden-band. 



RADISSON 101 

Runners 
(Faint in the distance) 
Oho, oho! Pierre! Oho! Oho! 

Anahotaha 
(Curtly) 
Thy brother's runners. Answer to the call. 

Radisson 
Oho! Oho! — They hear! I see them turn. 

Anahotaha 
(Waves signal) 
Oho! Oho! 

Runners 

(Nearer) 
Pierre ! Oho ! Pierre ! 

Anahotaha 

They come for thee, and here our trails divide. 
Farewell, white chief. My woman, follow me! 

(He turns and without looking backward makes 
off on a new trail.) 



102 RADISSON 

OWERA 

(Briefly) 

The eagle to the mountain! But the owl 
With weighted eyelid, hides him from the light. 
The gods have willed it so. And so farewell. 

(With unfaltering, rhythmic step, she follows 
Anahotaha off.) 

Radisson 

My Owera, my wonder-child! — Farewell! — 

We bind our shoes with heart-strings, place of thongs, 

And never guess the marvel, as we use 

The light of day for common offices 

Nor count its origin among the spheres! 

The stream of life hath caught us; we are swept 

By powers we know not, upon unsought shores, 

For purposes we cannot even guess. 

But by the will of me that dares to live, 

I will return no more to Wendat land. 

I will go northward on another trail, 

And trouble them no more by my return. 

Runners 
(In sight, signaling to him) 
Oho! Pierre! 

Radisson 

Oho! I wait you here! — 
Since else to do is yet beyond my power! 



RADISSON 103 

(He removes his cap and sweeps the landscape 
with a long look.) 

My wilderness! Thy pardon! I depart, 

But here I leave my dream — my name — my heart! 

[final curtain] 



THE PASSING OF THE INDIAN 

A mist that shifts and changes with the wind, 

A dream the dreamer tries in vain to hold, — 

Such is the mastery on the earth of man. 

Where once the unfettered Redman roamed at will, 

The white man claims the land by metes and bounds. 

The clang of mill and factory breaks the hush 

That brooded on the prairie and the stream, 

And where the moccasin flower, shy and wild, 

Danced with the wind and sheltered in the shade, 

The prim, trim fields march straitly, row by row. 

What has been, shall be; change shall follow change. 

For the dominion that man claims is vain, 

His lordship of the earth a passing dream, — 

A dream the dreamer tries in vain to clasp, 

A mist that melts within his futile grasp. 



HISTORICAL NOTE 

The detailed account, in manuscript, of the four 
" voyages " of Pierre Esprit Radisson was, it is con- 
jectured, written out by the adventurer from his rough 
notes about 1665, some ten years after that first visit 
to the Upper Mississippi which he chronicles. The 
account was prepared for Sir George Carteret, Vice- 
Chamberlain of Charles II, at a time when Radisson 
and Groseilliers, bitter at what they considered the 
extortionate demands of their own government, were 
engaged in enlisting English influence for the founding 
of a company to exploit the great Northwest of the 
New World. Their representations led, as a matter 
of fact, to the establishment of the Hudson Bay Com- 
pany, which was chartered in 1670, and the two ad- 
venturers were engaged under that company for ten 
years. Then they both returned to the service of 
France, and for the next ten years used their intimate 
knowledge of the country to outwit and out-trade the 
English trappers. In 1684 Radisson again entered the 
service of the Hudson Bay Company, this time with- 
out Groseilliers, who, it is conjectured, probably died 
soon afterward in Canada. Radisson at once voy- 
aged to Hudson Bay and took forcible possession of 
the chief French trading post; but after only four 
years of active service he seems to have been placed 

107 



io8 RADISSON 

on the pension list of the company. As he was then 
only fifty-three years old, one quickly guesses that his 
daring had finally led him into some hazard which 
ended his adventures forever. Twenty-one years later 
the pension ceased, indicating that Radisson died in 
England in 1710. 

Radisson's manuscripts came into the possession of 
Samuel Pepys when Secretary of the Admiralty, — a 
part of that remarkable collection which went, in large 
part, after the death of the diarist, to wrap the par- 
cels of London tradesmen. Later, Richard Rawlinson, 
the collector, rescued many of Pepys's most valuable 
papers; and two Radisson manuscripts came into the 
possession of the Bodleian Library and the British 
Museum, where they remained practically unknown 
to the world until 1885. In that year a transcript 
was made from the original manuscripts, and this was 
published in a limited edition of two hundred and fifty 
copies by the Prince Society, of Boston, a society 
devoted to the publication of rare documents relating 
to early American history. 

Radisson's narrative, written in the colloquial Eng- 
lish which he used familiarly, is the composition of a 
fur trader and adventurer, not of a scientific explorer 
or a professional discoverer. It is, therefore, lacking 
in certain of the qualities of exactness which the his- 
torian values; yet its main points are sufficiently cor- 
roborated by contemporary records to establish their 
verity. 

The incidents which have been used in the drama 
belong to the years 1655-56 and 1659-60. In August, 



HISTORICAL NOTE 109 

1654, Groseilliers, an experienced Indian trader, 
thirty-four years old, and his young brother-in-law, 
Radisson, who, though only nineteen, already had 
seven years of adventure on both continents behind 
him, set out from Three Rivers to open new trails 
into the Far West. With an escort of Hurons and 
Ottawas, they followed the customary route to Lake 
Huron, and spent the autumn and winter in the region 
of Mackinac and Green Bay. Early the next spring, 
before the snow was gone, the little party traveled 
on snowshoes southwestward to a great river, striking 
the Mississippi probably near the mouth of the Fox 
River. Building boats, they ascended the stream to 
Isle Pelee, where they were surprised and relieved to 
find a newly settled band of Hurons, driven from their 
home near the Georgian Bay by the warlike Iroquois. 
They stayed with these friendly Indians for over a 
year, and while Radisson went about with the young 
men, exploring and hunting, Groseilliers devoted him- 
self to raising a harvest on the island to equip them 
for their return journey. The pacific Hurons, fearing 
to encounter their old enemies, the Iroquois, tried to 
detain them, and were only shamed into providing an 
escort for the journey by Radisson's fiery denuncia- 
tions, after Groseilliers' persuasive arguments had 
failed. 

Three years later they returned to the West, coast- 
ing along the southern shore of Lake Superior to 
Chequamegon Bay. Four days' march south, near a 
lake (identified as probably Lac Courte Oreille), they 
found a band of their Isle Pelee Indians, who had 



no RADISSON 

been driven northward by the Sioux. That winter 
was marked by a terrible famine, in which over five 
hundred of the Hurons and Ottawas perished. With 
the opening of spring, the two Frenchmen called all 
the neighboring tribes to a great feast in the region 
of Knife Lake, — which probably takes its name from 
that event, as the fact that the Sioux Indians then 
first came into contact with the whites and received 
knives from them is preserved in the traditions of the 
tribe, and in the name by which they were later known 
to Du Luth and Hennepin, of Isanti or Knife Sioux. 
After the feast the two trappers traveled south with 
the returning Sioux to their own land in the region 
of the Minnesota, Mississippi, and Rum rivers, and 
then returned, with their laden sleds, to Chequamegon 
Bay. On this return trip Radisson met with the mis- 
adventures which have been used to give the setting 
for the fourth act. 

For a popular account of Radisson's narrative, the 
reader is referred to the essay, " Groseilliers and Radis- 
son," by Mr. Warren Upham, Secretary of the Min- 
nesota State Historical Society, published in Volume 
X, Part II, of the " Collections " of that society. 



DIRECTIONS FOR COSTUMING AND 
MOUNTING IF THE PLAY IS TO BE 
GIVEN BY AMATEURS 

As all the scenes are out of doors, the play is easily 
adapted for out-of-door presentation by amateurs. The 
same setting, an open space inclosed by trees, could 
be used throughout, leaving the speeches of the char- 
acters to indicate the season. In the first scene, tents 
in the background should give a suggestion of a set- 
tled camp. For the other scenes, nothing is really 
necessary but an open place in the woodland. As the 
third and fourth acts call for winter scenes, the in- 
closing background should either be of bare branches 
or of such winter trees as spruce, fir, tamarack. 

COSTUMES 

Radisson and Groseilliers. Their ordinary dress is 
that of the scout or voyageur, consisting of buckskin 
leggings reaching to the hip, moccasins, a belted blouse, 
a fur cap with flaps that can be drawn down over the 
ears. Their dress of ceremony is made by adding a 
gay sash and an embroidered cloak; and at the Friend- 
ship Feast they add beads, embroideries, and trinkets 
ad lib. They wear habitually a knife in a sheath and 
a gay pouch, both attached to the belt. 

in 



ii2 RADISSON 

The Wendats. Their dress includes long leggings, 
reaching to the hip, and fringed on the outer seam; 
deerskin shirts or coats; moccasins. Their hair is 
parted and braided in two braids, falling on either side 
of the face. As they have long been more or less in 
contact with white traders, they may wear blankets or 
other woven material, made up after their own old 
fashion. The men may wear feathers, and on cere- 
monial occasions would certainly do so. Also em- 
broidered garments, beads, and other decorations. 

Sondaqua as chief, and afterward Anahotaha, wears 
a cloak made of brilliant feathers sewed lightly by the 
stem upon a piece of cloth reaching from the neck 
to the ground. Their other garments, fashioned like 
those of the other members of the tribe, are more 
elaborately embroidered with dyed grasses, beads, por- 
cupine quills, etc., and they wear necklaces of bears' 
claws. Ihee, as medicine-man, carries a rattle made of 
a gourd filled with small stones, and a headdress made 
of an owl's head and wings. 

Owera. A broadcloth or deerskin dress, fastened 
at the shoulders and embroidered only on the upper 
part, which is folded back, and on the sleeves, which 
are separate from the dress; deerskin leggings gartered 
below the knee; moccasins; an outer coat coming to 
the middle of the leg, fringed at the bottom; a gay 
sash, with fringed ends, fastened behind; a beaded 
headband crossing her forehead and fastened behind. 
Her hair is parted and braided in two braids which 
fall over her breast and are tied at the ends with gay 
ribbons — except in the mourning scene. Her leggings 



HISTORICAL NOTE 113 

are fringed at the bottom where they meet the moc- 
casin, not at the seam. She may wear a fringed kirtle 
and short coat in place of the one-piece dress, to vary 
the costume. 

Other Wendat Women, Like Owera, but less 

gay. 

Weapons of the Wendats. Knives, guns, bows, and 
arrows. They carry the arrows in quivers worn on 
the back. 

The Sioux. The Envoys wear ceremonial dress, — 
long leggings, belted shirts, robes or cloaks of buffalo- 
skin, porcupine-quill breastplate, necklaces of bear 
claws or of bright stones. Their hair is parted, cut 
short across the forehead, the rest braided on each side 
the face. Their headdress may be as elaborate as 
imagination can suggest, — buffalo horns, turkey feath- 
ers forming a crown, beaver-skin rolls, feathers of all 
colors. The leader wears a black war-bonnet of 
feathers. The tail of fox or other animal is fastened 
at heel of moccasin and flaps on the ground. The 
young men of the Sioux and those who take part in 
the games are naked except for a loin cloth, moccasins, 
and headdress. Their weapons are hammers and 
hatchets made of sharp stones tied to a stick, and 
bows and arrows. The quiver is made of bark, and 
hangs from the shoulders. Some carry shields of 
buffalo-skin stretched upon a round frame, and deco- 
rated with feathers. The faces and bodies of the 
Sioux are painted. 

The Crees. Tight leggings reaching to the hip; 
close vest or shirt fastened with thongs; cap of fur, 



ii 4 RADISSON 

with tail of animal for ornament. A robe or mantle 
of moose-skin or beaver covers the whole. Their hair 
is flowing, not braided. They wear armlets and other 
ornaments of copper, and of shells. 



DIRECTIONS FOR PAGEANT 

The dances and games which mark the ceremonies 
of " The Feast of Friendship " can be extended or 
curtailed as may be desired. The peculiar and mo- 
notonous " one-two, one-two," of the Indian drum- 
beat should be studied at native sources to insure ac- 
curacy ; and so, too, the dancing step, the peculiar bend- 
ing and swaying of which are difficult to describe. The 
pictures of the " Buffalo Dance " and the " Bear 
Dance " in Catlin's North American Indian Portfolio 
give a good idea of the postures assumed by the 
dancers. 

For music, consult Bulletin 45 and 53 of the 
Bureau of American Ethnology, published for the 
Smithsonian Institution by the Government Printing 
Office. 

A concise description of numerous Indian games is 
given in Bulletin 30, Part 1, of the Bureau of Ameri- 
can Ethnology, under the head of " Games." 



THE END 



Lily A. Long's RADISSON : The Voyageur 

12mo. $1.00 net. 

A highly picturesque play in four acts and in verse. The 
central figures are Radisson the redoubtable voyageur who 
explored the Upper Mississippi, his brother-in-law Groseil- 
liers, Owera the daughter of an Indian chief and various 
other Indians. The daring resource of the two white men in 
the fact of imminent peril, the pathetic love of Owera, and 
above all, the vivid pictures of Indian life, the women grind- 
ing corn, the council, dances, feasting and famine are notable 
features, and over it all is a somewhat unusual feeling for 
the moods of nature which closely follow those of the people 
involved. 

THREE MODERN PLAYS FROM THE FRENCH 

Lemaitre's The Pardon, and Lavedan's Prince D'Aurec, 
translated by Barrett H. Clark, with Donnay's The Other 
Danger, translated by Charlotte Tenney David, with an intro- 
duction to each author by Barrett H. Clark and a Preface 
by Clayton Hamilton. One volume. $1.50 net. 

"The Pardon" is a brilliant three-act love comedy, with 
but three characters. "Prince D'Aurec" is a drama with an 
impoverished Prince, his wife, and a Jew money-lender as 
protagonists. It is full of telling satire on a decadent nobility. 
"The Other Danger" is a tensely emotional play, centering 
around a situation similar to Paula Tanqueray's, but the out- 
come is different. 

Alice Johnstone Walker's LITTLE PLAYS FROM AMERICAN 
HISTORY FOR YOUNG FOLK 

$1.00 net. 

In Hiding the Regicides there are a number of brief and 
stirring episodes, concerning the pursuit of Colonels Whalley 
and Goff by the officers of Charles II at New Haven in old 
colony days. Mrs. Murray's Dinner Party, in three acts, 
is a lively comedy about a Patriot hostess and British Officers 
in Revolutionary Days. In the four Scenes from Lincoln's 
Time, the martyred President does not himself appear. They 
cover Lincoln's helping a little girl with her trunk, women 
preparing lint for the wounded, a visit to the White House of 
an important delegation from New York, and of the mother 
of a soldier boy sentenced to death — and the coming of the 
army of liberation to the darkeys. Tho big events are touched 
upon, the mounting of all these little plays is simplicity itself, 
and they have stood the test of frequent school performance. 

HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS NEW YORK 



BOOKS ON AND OF SCHOOL PLAYS 

By Constance D'Arcy Mackay 

HOW TO PRODUCE CHILDREN'S PLAYS 

The author is a recognized authority on the production 
of plays and pageants in the public schools, and combines en- 
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tells both how to inspire and care for the young actor, how 
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formances of Browning's Pied Piper and Rosetti's Pageant 
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16mo, probable price $1.20 net (Feb., 1914). 

PATRIOTIC PLAYS AND PAGEANTS 

Pageant of Patriotism (Outdoor and Indoor Versions) : — 
*Princess Pocahontas, Pilgrim Interlude, Ferry Farm Epi- 
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Hawthorne Pageant (for Outdoor or Indoor Produc- 
tion) : — Chorus of Spirits of the Old Manse, Prologue by the 
Muse of Hawthorne, In Witchcraft Days, Dance Interlude, 
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The portions marked with a star (*) are one-act plays 
suitable for separate performance. There are full directions 
for simple costumes, scenes, and staging. 12mo. $1.35 net. 

THE HOUSE OF THE HEART 

Short plays in verse for children of fourteen or younger : — 
"The House of the Heart (Morality Play)— "The Enchanted 
Garden" (Flower Play)— "A Little Pilgrim's Progress" (Mor- 
ality Play) — "A Pageant of Hours" (To be given Out of 
Doors) — "On Christmas Eve." "The Princess and the Pix- 
ies." "The Christmas Guest" (Miracle Play.), etc. $1.10 net. 

"An addition to child drama which has been sorely needed." — Boston 
Transcript. 

THE SILVER THREAD 

And Other Folk Plays. "The Silver Thread" (Cornish) ; 
"The Forest Spring" (Italian) ; "The Foam Maiden" (Celtic) ; 
"Troll Magic" (Norwegian) ; "The Three Wishes" (French) ; 
"A Brewing of Brains" (English) ; "Siegfried" (German) ; 
"The Snow Witch" (Russian). $1.10 net. 

HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS NEW YORK 



By GEORGE MIDDLETON 

NOWADAYS 

A Play in Three Acts. 2nd printing. $1.00 net. 

A comedy-drama of present-day conditions. It deals specifically with 
the conflicting demands made upon a mother by her conservative hus- 
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New York Evening Post: " . . . notable not only as a sane 
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EMBERS 

With The Failures, The Gargoyle, In His House, Ma- 
donna and The Man Masterful. 2nd printing. $1.35 
net. 

These one-act plays of American Life To-day are perfectly practical 
for clever amateurs and especially available for club discussion and 
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conversations have the true style of human speech, and show first-rate 
economy of words, every syllable advancing the plot. The little dramas 
are full of cerebration, and I shall recommend them in my public 
lectures." 

TRADITION 

With On Bail, Mothers, Waiting, Their Wife and The 
Cheat of Pity. 2nd printing. $1.35 net. 

A companion volume to the above. Tradition^ deals with the attempt 
of the dominant though kindly man of the family to crush the artistic 
ambitionsof his wife and daughter through their economic dependence. 
On Bail is a remorseless picture of a social parasite. Mothers shows 
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passion with pity and the habit of life. 

Clayton Hamilton, in an extended notice in The Bookman: "All of 
these little pieces are admirable in technique: they are soundly con- 
structed and written in natural and lucid dialogue. . . . He has 
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women whom he has chosen to depict." 

HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS NEW YORK 



CLARK'S CONTINENTAL DRAMA OF TO-DAY— Outline, 
for Its Study 

By Barrett H. Clark, Editor of and Translator of two of 
the plays in "Three Modern French Plays." 12mo. 
$1.35 net. 
Suggestions, questions, biographies, and bibliographies for 
use in connection with the study of some of the more import- 
ant plays of Ibsen, Bjornsen, Strindberg, Tolstoy, Gorky, 
Tchekoff, Andreyeff, Hauptmann, Sudermann, Wedekind, 
Schnitzler, Von Hoffmansthal, Becque, Le Maitre, Lave- 

DAN, DONNAY, MAETERLINCK, ROSTAND, BrIEUX, HERVIEU, 

Giacosa, D'Annunzio, Echegaray, and Galdos. 

In half a dozen or less pages for each play, Mr. Clark 
tries to indicate, in a way suggestive to playwriters and 
students, how the skilled dramatists write their plays. It is 
intended that the volume shall be used in connection with 
the reading of the plays themselves, but it also has an inde- 
pendent interest in itself. 

Prof. William Lyon Phelps of Yale: ". . . One of the most useful 
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of valuable hints and suggestions. . . ." 

Providence Journal: "Of undoubted value. ... At the com- 
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nique in general, and of the modern movement in particular." 

Sixth Edition, Enlarged and with Portraits 

HALE'S DRAMATIST'S OF TO-DAY 

By Prof. Edward Everett Hale, Jr., of Union College. 

Rostand, Hauptmann, Sudermann, 
Pinero, Shaw, Phillips, Maeterlinck 

"A Note on Standards of Criticism," "Our Idea of 
Tragedy," and an appendix of all the plays of each author, 
with dates of their first performance or publication, complete 
the volume. $1.50 net. 

New York Evening Post: "It is not often nowadays that a theatrical 
book can be met with so free from gush and mere eulogy, or so 
weighted by common sense ... an excellent chronological appendix 
and full index . . . uncommonly useful for reference." 

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. . . % § Mr. Hale is a modest and sensible, as well as an acute and 
sound critic. . . . Most people will be surprised and delighted with 
Mr. Hale's simplicity, perspicuity and ingenuousness.'* 

HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS NEW YORK 



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